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A 


NEW ENGLAND TALE, 


MISCELLANIES. 


CATHERINE jff S E DGRWICK. 

AUTHOR OF “ HOPE LESLIE,” “ REDWOOD,” “ CLARENCE,” ETC., ETC. 


NEW-YORK: 

J. C. DERBY, 8 PARK PLACE. 

BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 

CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY. 


1 854 . 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by 
C. M. Sedgewick, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District 
of New-York. 


IIolman, Gray & Co , Printers, 
Corner of White and Centre Sts., N. Y. 


A 


NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


But how the subject theme may gang, 
Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
Perhaps turn out a sermon. 


Burns. 



















































A 


























* 








* 


* 











w 














































* 





















f 



















« 






V 


I 











* 






TO 

MARIA EDGEWORTH, 

AS A 

SLIGHT EXPRESSION 

OF THE 

writer’s sense of her eminent services 

IN THE 

GREAT CAUSE 

OF 

HUMAN VIRTUE AND IMPROVEMENT, 

<Kf)i5 Iambi* Cal* * 

IS 




RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 




















. 








PREFACE 


TO THE FIRST EDITION. 


The writer of this tale has made an humble effort to 
add something to the scanty stock of native American 
literature. Any attempt to conciliate favour by apolo- 
gies would he unavailing and absurd. In this free 
country, no person is under any obligation to write ; 
and the public (unfortunately) is under no obligation 
to read. It is certainly desirable to possess some 
sketches of the character and manners of our own 
country, and if this has been done with any degree of 
success, it would be wrong to doubt that it will find a 
reception sufficiently favourable. 

The original design of the author was, if possible, 
even more limited and less ambitious than what has 
been accomplished. It was simply to produce a very 

1 * 


10 


PREFACE. 


short and simple moral tale of the most humble de- 
scription ; and if in the course of its production it has 
acquired any thing of a peculiar or local cast, this 
should be chiefly attributed to the habits of the 
writer’s education, and that kind of accident which 
seems to control the efforts of those who have not been 
the subjects of strict intellectual discipline, and have 
not sufficiently premeditated their own designs. 

It can scarcely be necessary to assure the reader, 
that no personal allusions, however remote, were in- 
tended to be made to any individual, unless it be an 
exception to this remark, that the writer has attempted 
a sketch of a real character under the fictitious appella- 
tion of “ Crazy Bet.” 


March 30 , 1822 . 


PREFACE 


TO THE SECOND EDITION. 


There are few subjects upon which men are so apt tc 
mistake, as their motives, and the character of their 
own actions. This tale was written under a sincere 
conviction of its beneficial tendency. If this be a de- 
lusion, it is one which still influences the mind of the 
writer, who cannot but believe that it is this circum- 
stance which has chiefly contributed to the satisfaction 
derived from the indulgent and liberal reception with 
which this humble effort has been so kindly greeted. 

The objections which have been made to the moral 
and religious character of this book, the writer cannot 
comprehend, and therefore will not undertake to refute. 

, Religious cant and sanctimonious pretence have exist- 
ed in most ages of the world, and have ever been 
deemed legitimate objects of satire; and the writer of 
the Hew England Tale, would rather court than avoid 


12 


PREFACE. 


an imputation (if it be such), which must be equally 
shared with Butler, Cowper, and Crabbe, and could 
only wish that there had been a similar participation 
of talent and genius. 

If the writer could suppose that any reader of in- 
telligence and candour could consider this tale as a 
designed attack upon the character of any class of 
Christians, such an object would be distinctly disavow- 
ed ; and, it is confidently believed, might be clearly 
refuted from the tale itself. To exhibit our religion in 
its uncorrupted state, and in such a form as to interest 
the affections and influence the conduct, is a right and 
a duty which the writer has attempted to exercise and 
perform ; and if any degree of success has attended 
that effort, it must bring with it its own reward. In 
the mode of doing this, mistakes may have been com- 
mitted, and, if so, will be matter of sincere regret. 

Every person of generous sentiments wdio has been 
led to treat of morals or religion, must have felt with 
peculiar force the sentiment so beautifully expressed 
in the often quoted lines of the master-poet of our 
language : 

“ Oh then that we comd come by Caesar’s spirit. 

And not dismember Caesar 1” 

But, from the constitution of human nature, it is, 
and ever will be, impossible to make any attack upon 


PREFACE. 


13 


folly, vice, or error, which shall not be susceptible of 
an application to classes of men, and even to in- 
dividuals ; and if any one shall insist upon making 
such an application of any thing in this book, the 
writer must reply to the supposed antagonist in the 
words of the same poet — that he 

“but therein suits 

His folly to the metal of my speech. 

Let me see wherein 

My tongue has wronged him; if it do him right, 

Then hath he wronged himself ; if he be free, 

Why then my censure like a wild goose flies, 

Unclaimed of any man.” 


But there is a charge of a graver cast which may 
be fairly made against this book, and to which the 
writer seizes with avidity the first opportunity to plead 
guilty. If, as its title must seem to denote, the book 
be considered as a representation of the general char- 
acter of the people of New England, it is not sufficient- 
ly favourable. In that character no one feels a deeper 
interest or a higher pride than the writer, who thinks 
that there is to be found in it, if not so much to adorn 
human life, yet perhaps even more than is fitted to 
subserve the great interests of mankind, than in any 
other portioif of the world. If this sentiment be deemed 
narrow or prejudiced, it must be put to the account 


14 


PREFACE. 


of early education, and that ground will meet with 
indulgence. With such an opinion, however, can it be 
supposed that tKe writer could consent to publish a 
libel upon the whole people ? 

As a mistake has been committed, the best correc- 
tion may perhaps be found in an honest avowal of its 
cause. 

It is stated in the preface to the first edition, that 
the book was written without any definite plan — and 
an intelligent reader would probably have made the 
same observation without the suggestion of the author. 
There certainly was no design either in the plan or 
execution of the work, of furnishing an estimate of the 
intellectual, moral, or religious character of the people 
of Hew-England, and when finished, its title was rather 
inconsiderately adopted at the suggestion of a friend. 

It is not known whether there be any precedent for 
changing the title of a book, yet the author has thought 
proper, in this edition, to retrench a part of it, which is 
at least superfluous. 

July 18, 1822. 


The prefaces to the former editions of the Hew- 
England Tale are retained in this, as there may yet be 
those to whom their explanations will be satisfactory. 
The reason alleged in the first for the publication of 


PREFACE. 


15 


the book is now rendered void by the immense and 
rapidly increasing mass of “ native American litera- 
tim,” ■ 

This Tale might^gjleft t<^ts natural death, or ob- 
scurity, overshadow^. by. fresher and superior produc- 
tions of the f samg species, but that it derives some 
claim to sufferahce from its priority in time. 

Our social has kept pace with our physical develop- 
ment in the’ last few years. Society has been moulded 
and remoulded, cast and recast, so that the portraiture 
of thirty years since, though bearing no veri-similitude 
to the present times, has a certain value, like that of a 
picture, however unskilfully wrought, that preserves 
with truth the features and costume of a past period. 

New sects have sprung up, old ones are abated or 
softened, and a pharisaical, canting bigot, of the old 
orthodoxy of New-England, like the Dame Wilson of 
our story, would talk an unknown tongue to a sister in 
the communion of the new school, albeit evangelical. 

The progress of civilization, and the facilities of 
communication, have levelled all distinctions. There 
is no village so secluded no\^ as to be surprised by the 
fashions of the town, and scarcely a country-bred lady 
to be detected by her rusticity. The progress in the 
luxury of dress makes the invective of our Mrs. Con- 
vers against the extravagance of the 6 now-a-days girl ’ 
simply ludicrous. The country ‘ store] which perhaps 


16 


PREFACE. 


^received its designation from the variety of its corn- 
mod itiesj^-anging from brooms to ribbons, has become 
the ‘ shop ,’ filM* in s'oniecases, by direct importations 
from England and Frafrice* could now be 

successfully pursued against^jlancSg. 'Even the rustic 
phrases that charbcieftzed ^he^pbsiti«^oftour dramatis 
personae have passed away and are forgotten. — Thus 
if the coin we offer be neither^. gold^n^iY§ilver, if it 
have no intrinsic value, we hope its^mpress will be 
an apology for its new issue, with those who have a 
fond or foolish love for the past. 

The additional tales in the volume will at least have 
the attraction of novelty to most of our readers, as they 
are now, for the first time, resuscitated, after a decent 
interment in the magazines. 


Lenox, May 27, 1852. 


A 


* # 

NEW ENGLAND TALE 

— ? — » ■ ■ - 

CHAPTER I. 

Oh, ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think for a moment on his wretched fate, 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown. 

Burns. 

Mr. Elton was formerly a flourishing trader, or, in rustic 

phrase, a merchant, in the village of . In the early 

part of his life he had been successful in business ; and 
having a due portion of that mean pride which is gratified by 
pecuniary superiority, he was careful to appear quite as rich 
as he was. When he was at the top of fortune’s wheel, some 
of his prying neighbors shrewdly suspected, that the show of 
his wealth was quite out of proportion to the reality ; and 
their side-glances and prophetic whispers betrayed their con- 
tempt of the offensive airs of the purse-proud man. 

The people in the village of were simple in their 

habits, and economical in their modes of life ; and Mr. 
Elton’s occasional indulgence in a showy piece of furniture, 
or an expensive article of dress for himself or for his wife, 


18 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


attracted notice, and, we fear, sometimes provoked envy, even 
from those who were wiser and much better than he was. So 
inconsistent are men — and women too — that they often envy 
a display of which they really despise, and loudly condemn 
the motive. 

Mrs. Elton neither deserved nor shared the dislike her 
husband received in full measure. On the contrary, she had 
the good-will of her neighbors. She never seemed elated by 
prosperity ; and though she occasionally appeared in an ex- 
pensive Leghorn hat, a merino shawl, or a fine lace, the 
gentleness and humility of her manners, and the uniform 
benevolence of her conduct, averted the censure that would 
otherwise have fallen on her. She had married Mr. Elton 
when very young, without much consideration, and after a 
short acquaintance. She had to learn, in the bitter way of 
experience, that there was no sympathy between them ; their 
hands were indissolubly joined, but their hearts were not re- 
lated ; he was 11 of the earth, earthy” — she “ of the heavens, 
heavenly.” She had that passiveness which, we believe, is 
exclusively a feminine virtue (if virtue it may be called), 
and she acquiesced silently and patiently in her unhappy 
fate, though there was a certain abstractedness in her man- 
ner, a secret feeling of indifference and separation from the 
world, of which she, perhaps, never investigated, certainly 
never exposed the cause. 

Mr. Elton’s success in business had been rather owing to 
accidental circumstances, than to his skill or prudence ; but 
his vanity appropriated to himself all the merit of it. He 
adventured rashly in one speculation after another, and fail- 
ing in them all, his losses were more rapid than his acquisi- 
tion;: had been. Few persons have virtue enough to retrench 
their expenses, as their income diminishes ; and no virtue, of 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


19 


difficult growth, could be expected from a character where no 
good seed had ever taken root. 

The morale , like the physique, needs use and exercise to 
give it strength. Mrs. Elton’s had never been thus invigora- 
ted. She could not oppose a strong current. She had not 
energy to avert an evil, though she would have borne patient- 
ly any that could have been laid on her. She knew her 
husband’s affairs were embarrassed ; she saw him constantly 
incurring debts, which she knew they had no means of pay- 
ing; she perceived he was gradually sinking into a vice, 
which, while it lulls the sense of misery, annihilates the ca- 
pacity of escaping from it — and yet she silently, and without 
an effort, acquiesced in his faults. They lived on, as they 
had lived, keeping an expensive table, and three or four ser- 
vants, and dressing as usual. 

This conduct in Mrs. Elton, was the result of habitual 
passiveness ; in Mr. Elton, it was prompted by a vain hope 
of concealing from his neighbors a truth, that, in spite of his 
bustling, ostentatious ways, they had known for many months. 
This is a common delusion. We all know that from the 
habits of our people in a country town, it is utterly impossi- 
ble for the most watchful and skilful manoeuverer, to keep his 
pecuniary affairs secret from the keen and quick observation 
of his neighbors. The expedients practised for concealment 
are much like that of a little child, who shuts his own eyes, 
and fancies he has closed those of the spectators ; or in their 
effect upon existing circumstances, may be compared to the 
action of a frightened woman, who turns her back in a car- 
riage when the horses are leaping over a precipice. 

It may seem strange, perhaps incredible, that Mrs. Elton, 
possessing the virtues we have attributed to her, and being a 
religious woman, should be accessory to such deception, and 


20 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


(for we will call “things bj their right names”) dishonesty. 
But the wonder will cease if we look around upon the circle 
of our acquaintance, and observe how few there are among 
those whom we believe to be Christians, who govern their 
daily conduct by Christian principles, and regulate their 
temporal duties by the strict Christian rule. Truly, narrow 
is the way of perfect integrity, and few there are that walk 
therein. 

There are too many who forget that our religion is not 
like that of the ancients, something set apart from the ordi- 
nary concerns of life ; the consecrated, not the “daily bread;” 
a service for the temple and the grove, having its separate 
class of duties and pleasures ; but is “ the leaven that leaven- 
eth the whole lump,” a spirit to be infused into the common 
affairs of life. "VVe fear Mrs. Elton was not quite guiltless of 
this fault. She believed all the Bible teaches. She had 
long been a member of the church in the town where she 
lived. She daily read the Scriptures, and daily offered sin- 
cere prayers. Certainly the waters of the fountain from 
whence she drank, had a salutary influence, though they 
failed to heal all her diseases. She was kind, gentle, and un- 
complaining ; and sustained, with admirable patience, the 
growing infirmities and irritating faults of her husband. To 
her child, she performed her duties wisely, and with an anx- 
ious zeal ; the result, in part, of uncommon maternal tender- 
ness, and in part, of a painful consciousness of the faults of 
her own character, and perhaps, of a secret feeling she had 
left much undone that she ought to do. 

Mr. Elton, after his pecuniary embarrassments were be- 
yond the hope of extrication, maintained by stratagem the 
appearance of prosperity for some months, when a violent fe- 
ver ended his struggle with the tide of fortune that had set 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


21 


against him, and consigned him to that place where there is 
“ no more work nor device.” His wife was left quite destitute 
with her child, then an interesting little girl, a little more 
than twelve years old. A more energetic mind than Mrs. 
Elton’s might have been discouraged by the troubles which 
were now set before her in all their extent, and with tenfold 
aggravation ; and she, irresolute, spiritless, and despondent, 
sunk under them. She had, from nature, a slender constitu- 
tion ; her health declined, and after lingering for some months, 
she died with resignation, but not without a heart-rending 
pang at the thought of leaving her child, poor, helpless, and 
friendless. 

Little Jane had nursed her mother with fidelity and ten- 
derness, and performed services for her, to which her years 
seemed hardly adequate, with an efficiency and exactness 
that surprised all who were prepared to find her a delicately 
bred and indulged child. She seemed to have inherited no- 
thing from her father but his active mind : from her mother 
she had derived a pure and gentle spirit; but this would 
have been quite insufficient to produce the result of such a 
character as hers, without the aid of her mother’s vigilant, 
and, for the most part, judicious training. In the formation 
of her child’s character, she had been essentially aided by a 
faithful domestic, who had lived with her for many years, and 
nursed Jane in her infancy. 

We know it is common to rail at our domestics. Their 
independence is certainly often inconvenient to their employ- 
ers ; but, as it is the result of the prosperous condition of all 
classes in our happy country, it is not right nor wise to com- 
plain of it. We believe there are many instances of intelli- 
gent and affectionate service, that are rarely equalled, where 
ignorance and servility mark the lower classes. Mary Hull 


22 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


was endowed with a mind of uncommon strength, and an 
affectionate heart. These were her jewels. She had been 
brought up by a pious mother, and early and zealously em- 
braced the faith of the Methodists. She had the virtues of 
her station in an eminent* degree : practical good sense, indus- 
trious, efficient habits, and handy ways. She never presum- 
ed formally to offer her advice to Mrs. Elton ; her instincts 
seemed to define the line of propriety to her ; but she had a 
way of suggesting hints, of which Mrs. Elton learnt the value 
by experience. This good woman had been called to a dis- 
tant place, to attend her dying mother, just before the death 
of Mrs. Elton ; and thus Jane was deprived of an able assist- 
ant, and most tender friend, and left to pass through the 
dismal scene of death, without any other than occasional 
assistance from her compassionate neighbors. 

On the day of Mrs. Elton’s interment, a concourse of 
people assembled to listen to the funeral sermon, and to fol- 
low to the grave one who had been the object of the envy of 
some, and of the respect and love of many. Three sisters of 
Mr. Elton were assembled with their families. — Mrs. Elton 
had come from a distant part of the country, and had no rel- 
atives in . 

Jane’s relations wore the decent gravity that became the 
occasion; but they were of a hard race, and neither the 
wreck their brother had made, nor the deep grief of the soli- 
tary little creature, awakened their pity. They even seemed 
to. shun manifesting towards her the kindness of common 
sympathy, lest it should be construed into an intention ofr 
taking charge of the orphan. 

Jane lost in the depths of her sufferings, seemed insensi- 
ble to all external things. Her countenance was of a death- 
like paleness, and her features immovable. In the course of 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


23 


the sermon, agreeably, to the usage established in such cases, 
the clergyman made a personal address to her, as the nearest 
relative and chief mourner. She was utterly unable to rise, 
as she should have done in compliance with custom ; and 
one of her aunts shocked at the omission of what she consider- 
ed an essential decorum, took her by the arm, and almost lift- 
ed her from her seat. She stood like a statue, her senses 
seeming to take no cognizance of anything. Not a tear es- 
caped, nor a sigh burst from her breaking heart. The sorrow 
of childhood is usually noisy, and this mute and motionless 
grief, in a creature so young, and one that had been so happy, 
touched every heart. 

When the services were over, the clergyman supported the 
trembling frame of the poor child to the place of interment. 
The coffin was slowly let down into the house appointed for 
all. Every one who has followed a dear«friend to the grave, 
remembers with shuddering the hollow sound of the first clods 
that are thrown on the coffin. As they fell heavily, poor 
Jane shrieked, 11 oh, mother !” and springing forward, bent 
over the grave, which, to her, seemed to contain all the world. 
The sexton, used as he was to pursue his trade amidst the 
wailings of mourners, saw something peculiar in the misery 
of the lone child. He dropped the spade, and hastily brush- 
ing away the tears that blinded him with the sleeve of his 
coat, “ Why does not some one,” he said, “ take away the 
child ? it beats all ! — her heart’s broke !” There was a gen- 
eral bustle in the crowd, and two young ladies, more conside- 
rate, or perhaps more tender-hearted, than the rest, kindly 
passed their arms around her, and led her to her home 

The clergyman of was one of those who are more 

zealous for sound doctrine, than benevolent practice:, he had 
chosen on that occasion for his text, “ The wages of sin is 


24 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


death,” and had preached a long sermon in the vain endeavour 
of elucidating the doctrine of original sin. Clergymen who 
lose such opportunities of instructing their people in the ope- 
rations of Providence, and the claims of humanity, ought not 
to wonder if they grow languid, and selfish, and careless of 
their most obvious duties. Had this gentleman improved 
this occasion of illustrating the duty of sympathy, by dwell- 
ing on the tenderness of our blessed Lord, when he wept with 
the bereaved sisters at the grave of Lazarus : had he distilled 
the essence of those texts, and diffused their gracious influ- 
ence into his sermon “ Bear ye one another’s burthens 

“ Weep with those who weep;” u Inasmuch as ye have done 
it unto one of these, ye have done it unto me had this 
preaching usually been in conformity to the teaching of our 
Saviour, could the scene have followed, which, as a part of 
Jane Elton’s story must be told. 

We fear there are many who think there is merit in be- 
lieving certain doctrines ; who, mistaking the true import of 
that text, “ by grace are ye saved,” quiet themselves with hav- 
ing, once in their lives, passed through what they deemed 
conviction and conversion, and from thence believe their sal- 
vation is secure. 

The house, furniture, and other property of Mr. Elton had 
lain under an attachment for some time previous to Mrs. El- 
ton’s death ; but the sale had been delayed in consideration 
of her approaching dissolution. It was now appointed for the 
next week ; and it therefore became necessary that some ar- 
rangement should be made for the destitute orphan. 

The day after the funeral, Jane was sitting in her mother’s 
room, which, in her eyes, was consecrated by her sickness and 
death ; the three aunts met at Mr. Elton’s house ; she heard 
the ladies approaching through the adjoining apartment, and 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


25 


hastily taking up her Bible, which she had been trying to 
read, she drew her little bench behind the curtain of her mo- 
ther’s bed. There is an instinct in childhood, that discerns 
affection wherever it exists, and shrinks from the coldness of 
calculating selfishness. In all their adversity, neither Jane, 
nor her mother, had ever been cheered by a glimmering of 
kindness from these relatives. Mrs. Elton had founded no 
expectations on them for her child ; but with her usual irreso- 
lution, she had shrunk from preparing Jane’s mind for the 
shocks that awaited her. 

The three sisters were led in by a young woman who had 
offered to stay with Jane till some arrangement was made for 
her. In reply to their asking where she was, the girl pointed 

to the bed. “ There,” she said, “ taking on despertly. A 

body would think,” added she, “ that she had lost her uncles 
and aunts, as well as her father and mother. And she might 
as well,” (she continued, in a tone low enough not to be heard,) 
“ for any good they will do her.” 

The eldest sister began the conference by saying, “ That 
she trusted it was not^expected she should take Jane upon 
her hands — that she was not* so well off as either of her 
sisters — that to be sure she had no children ; but then Mr. 
Daggett and hersel ^calculated to do a great deal for the For- 
eign Mi|pGnary Society ; that no longer ago than that morn- 
ing, Mr. D. and she had agreed to pay the expense of one of 

the young Cherokees at the school at ; that there was 

a great work goii^'on in the world, and as long as they had 
the heart given them to help it, they could not feel it their 
duty to withdraw any aid for a mere worldly purpose !” 

Mrs. Convers (the second sister) said that she had not any 
religion, and she did not mean to pretend to any ; that she 
had ways enough to spend her money without sending it to 
2 


26 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


Owyhee, or the Foreign School ; that she and her husband 
had worked hard, and saved all for their children ; and now 
they meant they should make as good a figure as anybody’s 
children in the country'. It took a great deal of money, she 
said, to pay the dancing-master, and the drawing-master, and 
the music-master ; it was quite impossible for her sisters to 
think how much it took to dress a family of girls genteely. 
It was not now, as it used to be when we were girls ; now-a- 
days, girls must have merino shawls, and their winter hats, 
and summer h#ts, and prunella shoes, and silk stockings ; — it 


was quite im 


to be decent without them. Besides, she 


added, as she did not live in the same place with Jane, it 
was not natural she should feel for her. It was her decided 
opinion, that Jane had better be put out at once, at some 
place where she could do light work till she was a little used 
to it; and she would advise, too, to her changing her name ; 
the chjld was so young she could not care about a name, and 
she should be much mortified to have it known, in the 


town of 


-that her daughters had a cousin that was a 


hired girl . 

There was something in th^s^ harsh counsel wh&h touched 
Mrs. Wilson’s (the younger sister’s) pride; thoimKit failed to 
awaken a sentiment of humanity. Slie sau^she desi^W tq be 
thankful that she had been kept from any sroinS(|^ courses 
as sending her children to a dancing-sch&oT; noWdy^ofild 
say she had not done her duty by theia^^tauninister’s family*^ 
was not kept more strict than hers. 


“ No,” said Mrs. Convers, “ and by all accounts is not 
more disorderly.” 

“Well, that is not our fault, Mrs. Convers, if we plant 
and water, we cannot give the increase.” 

Mrs. Wilson should have remembered that God does give 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


27 


the increase to those that rightly plant, and faithfully water. 
But Mrs. Wilson’s tongue was familiar with many texts that 
had never entered her understanding, or influanced her heart. 

Mrs. Wilson continued — “ Sister Convers, I feel it to be 
my duty to warn you — you, the daughter and grand-daughter 
of worthy divines who abhorred all such sinful practices, that 
you should own that you send your children to dancing 
school, astonishes and grieves my spirit. Do you know that 
Mr. C , imreporting the awakening in his parish, men- 

tions that not one of the girls that attended dancing school 
were among the converts, whereas two, who had engaged to 
attend it, but had received a remarkable warning in a dream, 
were among the first and brightest ?” 

“ I would as soon,” she continued, u follow one of my ^ 
children to the grave, as to see her in that broad road to de- 
struction, which leads through a ball-room.” 

“ It is easy enough,” replied Mrs. Convers, (adjusting her 
smart mourning cap at the glass,) “to run down sins we have 
no fancy for.” t 

Mrs. Wilson’s ready answer was prevented by the en- 
trance of Jane’s humble friend, who asked, if the ladies had 
determined what was to be done with the little girl. 

Mrs. Wilson in her vehemence had quite forgotten the 
object of their meeting, but now brought back to it, and 
instigated by a feeling of superiority to Mrs. Convers, and a 
little nettled by the excuses of Mrs. Daggett, which she 
thought were meant as a boast of superior piety, she said, 
that as she had no dancing-masters to pay, and had not “ that 
morning agreed” to adopt a Cherokee — she could afford to 
take Jane for a little while. The child, she said, must not 
think of depending upon her for life ; for though she was ^ 
widow, and could do what she was a mind to her with her 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


6wn, she could not justify herself in taking the children’s 
j^ieat — and she would have added — “to throw it to the dogs ” 
1— but she was interrupted by a person, who, unregarded by 
'the ladies, had taken her seat among them. 

** VThis was a middle aged woman, whose mind had been 
unsettled in her yputh by misfortunes. Having no mischiev- 
ou f propensities, she was allowed to indulge her vagrant in- 
clinations, in wandering from house to house, and town to 
town ; her stimulated imagination furnishing continual amuse- 
ment to the curious by her sagacious observations, and unfail* 
ing mirth to the young and vulgar, by the fanciful medley in 
which she arrayed her person. There were some who noticed 
in her a quickness of feeling that indicated original sensibility, 
which, perhaps, had been the cause of her sufferings. The 
dogs of a surly master would sometimes bark at her, because 
her dress resembled the obnoxious livery of the beggar — a 
class they had been taught to chase with pharisaical antipathy. 
But except when her timid nature was alarmed by the onset 
of dogs, which she always called the deviVs servants, crazy 
Bet found a welcome wherever she went. 

It is common for persons in her unfortunate circumstances 
to seek every scene of excitement. The sober, sedate man- 
ners of the New England people, and the even tenor of their 
lives, afford but few of these, and these few are, for the most 
part, of a serious if not a gloomy character. Wherever there 
was an awakening, or a camp meeting, crazy Bet was sure to 
be found. She was often seen by moonlight, wandering in 
the church-yard, plucking the nettles from the graves, and 
wreathing the monuments with ground-pine. She would 
watch for whole nights by the side of a grave in her native 
village, where twenty years before were deposited the remains 
of her lover, who was drowned on the day before they were 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


29 


to have been married. She would range the woods, and 
climb to the very mountain’s-top, to get sweet flowers, to 
scatter over the mound of earth that marked his grave. She 
would plant rose bushes and lilies there, and when they 
bloomed, pluck them up, because she said their purity and 
brightness mocked the decay below. 

She has been seen, when the sun came over the eastern 
mountain’s brow, and shot its first ray on the grave, to clap 
her hands, and heard to shout, “I see an angel in the sun, 
and he saith, 4 Blessed and holy is he that hath part in the 
first resurrection : on such, the second death hath no power ; 
but they shall be priests of God and of Christ, and shall reign 
with him a thousand years.’” 

Poor Bet was sure to follow in every funeral procession, 
and sometimes she would thrust herself amidst the mourners, 
and say, “the dead could not rest in their graves, if they 
were not followed there by one true mourner.” She has been 
seen to spring forward when the men were carelessly placing 
the coffin in the. grave, with the head to the east,. and ex- 
claim, “are ye heathens, that ye serve the dead thus? Know 
ye not, the 4 Lord cometh in the east.’ ” She always lingered 
behind after the crowd had dispersed, and busily moved and 
removed the sods ; and many a time has she fallen asleep, 
with her head resting on' the new-made grave, for, she said, 
there was no sleep so quiet as 4 where the wicked did not 
trouble.’ 

The quick eye of crazy Bet detected, through their thin 
guise, the pride and hypocrisy and selfishness of the sisters. 
She interrupted Mrs. Wilson as she was concluding her most 
inappropriate quotation, ‘Throw it to the dogs;’ said she, 4 It 
is more like taking the prey from the wolf.’ She then rose, 
singing in an under voice, 


30 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE 


« Oh ! bo the law of love fulfilled 
In every act and thought ; 

Each angry passion far removed, 

Each selfish view forgot.” 

She approached the bed. and withdrawing the curtain, ex- 
posed the little sufferer to view. She had laid the open Bible 
on the pillow, where she had often rested beside her mother, 
and laying her cheek on it, had fallen asleep. It was open at 
the, 5th chapter of John, which she had so often read to her 
mother, that she had turned instinctively to it. The page 
was blistered with her tears. 

Careless of the future, which to her seemed to admit no 
light, her exhausted nature had found relief in sleep, at the 
very moment her aunts were so unfeelingly deciding her fate. 
Her pale cheek, still wet with her tears, and the deep sadness 
of a face of uncommon sweetness, would have warmed with 
compassion any breast that had not been steeled by sel- 
fishness. 

u Shame, shame, upon you !” said the maniac ; “ has pride 
turned your hearts to stone, that ye cannot shelter this poor 
little ewe-lamb in your fold ? Ah ! ye may spread your 
branches, like the green bay tree, but the tempest will come, 
and those who look for you shall not find you ; but this little 
frost-bitten bud shall bloom in the paradise of God for ever 
and ever.” 

Untying a piece of crape which she had wound around her 
throat, (for she was never without some badge of mourning,) 
she stooped and gently wiped the tears from Jane’s cheek, 
saying, in a low tone, “ Bottles full of odours, which are the 
tears of saints ; then rising, she carefully closed the curtains, 
and busied herself for some minutes in pinning them together. 
She then softly, and on tiptoe, returned to her seat ; and tak- 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


31 


^pcfiPe 


mg some ivy from her broken straw-bonnet, began twisting 
it with the crape. “ This,” said she, “ is a weed for Elder . 
Carrol’s hat ; he lost his wife yesterday, and I have been to 
the very top of Taghconnick to get him a weed, that shall 
last fresh as long as his grief. See,” added she, and she held 
it up, laughing, “ it has begun to wilt already ; it is a true 
token.” 

She then rose from her seat, and with a quick step, be- 
tween running and walking, left the room ; but returning as 
suddenly, she said slowly and emphatically, “ Offend not this 
little one ; for her angel does stand before my Father. It 
were better that a mill-stone were hanged about your neck.” 
Then, courtseying to the ground, she left them. 

Bet’s solemn and slow manner of pronouncing this warn- 
ing, was so different from her usually hurried utterance, that 
it struck a momentary chill to the hearts of the sisters. Mrs. 
Daggett was the first to break the silence. 

“ What does she mean?” said she. u Has Jane experier- 
ced religion ?” 

“ Experienced religion ! — no,” replied Mrs. Wilson. 
“ How should she ? She has not been to a meeting since her 
mother was first taken sick ; and no longer ago than the day 
after her mother’s death, when I talked to her of her corrupt 
state by nature, and the opposition of her heart, (for I felt it 
to be my duty, at this peculiar season, to open to her the 
great truths of religion, and I was faithful to her soul, and 
did not scruple to declare the whole counsel,) she looked at 
me as if she was in a dumb stupor. I told her the judgments 
of an offended God were made manifest towards her in a re- 
markable manner ; and then I put it to her conscience, 
whether if she was sure her mother had gone where the worm 
th not, and the fire is not quenched, she should be recon- 


32 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


ciled to the character of God, and he willing herself to pro- 
mote his glory, by suffering the like condemnation ? She did 
not reply one word, or give the least symptom of a gracious 
understanding. But when Mrs. Harvey entered, just as I 
was concluding, and passed her arm around Jane, and said to 
her, ‘ My child, God does not willingly grieve or afflict you, 
the child sobbed out, 4 Oh no ! Mrs. Harvey, so my mother 
told me, and I am sure of it.” 

“ No, no,” she added, after a moment’s hesitation ; “ this 
does not look as if J ane had a hope. But, sister Daggett. I 
wonder you should mind any thing crazy Bet says. She is 
possessed with as many devils as were sent out of Mary Mag- 
dalen.” 

“ I don’t mind her, Mrs. Wilson ; but I know some very 
good people who say, that many a thing she has foretold has 
come to pass ; and especially in seasons of affliction, they say, 
she is very busy with the devil.” 

“ I don’t know how that may be,” replied Mrs. Wilson ; 
“ but as I mean to do my duty by this child, I don’t feel 
myself touched by Bet’s crazy ranting.” 

Mrs. Daggett, nettled .by her sister’s hint, rose, and said, 
that, as she was going in the afternoon to attend a meeting 
in a distant part of the town, (“ for,” said she, “no one can 
say that distance or weather ever keeps me from my duties,”) 
she had no more time to waste. 

Mrs. Convers’ husband drove to the door in a smart gig, 
and she took leave of her sisters, observing, she was glad the 
child was going to be so well provided for. As she drove 
away, crazy Bet, who was standing by the gate, apparently 
intently reading the destiny of a young girl, in the palm of 
her hand, fixed her eyes for a moment on Mrs. Convers, and 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


33 


whispered to the girl, “All the good seed that fell on that 
ground was choked by thorns long ago.” 

Mrs. Wilson told Jane’s attendant, Sally, to inform her, 
she might come to her house the next day, and stay there for 
the present. 


34 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


<1 


CHAPTER IL 

Or, haply, prest with cares aud woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth. — Burns. 

Jane received the intelligence of her destination without the 
slightest emotion. The world was “ all before her,” and she 
cared not whither led her “ mournful way.” 

Happily for her, the humble friend, mentioned in the be- 
ginning of her history, Mary Hull, returned on that day, 
after having performed the last act of filial duty. J ane poured 
all her sorrows into Mary’s bosom, and felt already a degree 
of relief that she had not believed her condition admitted. 

Such is the elastic nature of childhood ; its moral, like its 
physical constitution, is subject to the most sudden changes. 

Mary having assuaged the wounds of her youthful friend 
with the balm of tender sympathy and just consolation, under- 
took the painful, but necessary, task of exposing to Jane the 
evils before her, that she might fortify her against them ; 
that, as she said, being “fore-warned, she might be fore- 
armed.” 

She did not soften the trials of dependence upon a sordid 
and harsh nature. She told her what demands would be 
made on her integrity, her patience, and her humility. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


35 


“But, my child,” cried she, “do not be downhearted. 
There has One ‘ taken you up who will not leave you, nor 
forsake you.’ ‘ The fires may he about you, but they will 
not kindle on you.’ Make the Bible your counsellor ; you will 
always find some good word there, that will be a light to you 
in the darkest night : and do not forget the daily sacrifice of 
prayer ; for, as the priests under the old covenant were nour- 
ished by a part of that which they offered, so, when the sacri- 
fice of praise is sent upward by the broken and contrite heart, 
there is a strength cometh back upon our own souls : blessed 
be His name, it is what the world cannot give.” 

Mary’s advice fell upon a good and honest heart, and wo 
shall see that it brought forth much fruit. 

The evening was spent in packing J ane’s wardrobe, which 
had been well stocked by her profuse and indulgent parents. 
Mary had been told too, that the creditors of Mr. Elton 
would not touch the wearing apparel of his wife. This was, 
therefore, carefully packed and prepared for removal ; and 
Mary, who with her stock of heavenly wisdom had some 
worldly prudence, hinted to Jane, that she had better keep 
her things out of the sight of her craving cousins. 

J ane took up her mother’s Bible, and asked Mary, with a 
trembling voice, if she thought she might be permitted to 
take that. 

“ Certainly,” replied Mary, “ no one will dispute your 
right to it; it is not like worldly goods, we will not touch 
the spoils, though we were tempted by more than the 1 goodly 
Babylonish garment, the two hundred shekels of silver, and 
the wedge of gold * that made Achan to sin.” 

In obedience to the strictest dictates of honesty, Mary 
forbore from permitting her zeal for Jane’s interests to vio- 
late the letter of the law. She was so scrupulous, that she 


36 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


would not use a family trunk, but took a large cedar chest of 
her own to pack the clothes in. 

While they were busily occupied with these preparations, 
Jane received a note from her aunt, saying, that she advised 
her to secure some small articles which would never be 
missed : some of “the spoons, table-linen, her mother’s ivory 
work-box,” &c., &c. The note concluded — “ As I have under- 
taken the charge of you for the present, it is but right you 
should take my advice. There is no doubt my brother’s 
creditors, have cheated him a hundred-fold the amount of 
these things ; for, poor man ! with all his faults, he was so 
generous, any body could take him in ; besides, though these 
things might help to pay the expense I must be at in keeping 
you, they will be a mere nothing divided among so many 
creditors. I should be the last, child, to^dvise to any thing 
unlawful.” 

a Poor woman !” said Mary, to whom Jane had handed 
the note, and then checking the expression of her disgust at 
what to her upright mind seemed plain dishonesty — she 
merely added, “ we’ll keep on the sure side, Jane ; clean hands 
make light hearts.” 

The next morning arrived, and Mary arose before the 
dawn, in order to remove Jane early, and save her the pain 
of witnessing the preparations for the vendue. J ane under- 
stood her kind friend’s design, and silently acquiesced in it, 
for she had too much good sense to expose herself to any un- 
necessary suffering. But when every thing was in readiness, 
and the moment of departure arrived, she shrunk back from 
Mary’s offered arm, and sinking into a chair, yielded involun- 
tarily to the torrent of her feelings. She looked around upon 
the room and its furniture as if they were her friends. 

It has been said by one, who well understands the myste- 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


37 


ries of feeling, that objects which are silent every where else, 
have a voice in the home of our childhood. Jane looked for 
the last time at the bed, where she had often sported about 
ner mother, and rejoiced in her tender caresses — at the cur- 
tains, stamped with illustrations of the J ewish history, which 
had often employed and wearied her ingenuity in comprehend- 
ing their similitudes — at the footstool on which she had sat 
beside her mother — and the old family clock, 


“ Whose stroke ’twas heaven to hear, 

When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near.” 

Her eye turned to the glass, which now sent back her woe- 
begone image, and she thought of the time, but a little while 
past, when elated \yith that “ promised pleasure near,” she 
had there surveyed her form arrayed in her prettiest dress, — 
now, the rainbow tints had faded into the dark cloud. 

She rose and walked to the open window, about which she 
had trained a beautiful honey-suckle. The sun had just 
risen, and the dew-drops on its leaves sparkled in his rays. 

“ Oh, Mary !” said she, “ even my honey-suckle seems to 
weep for me.” 

A robin had built its nest on the vine ; and often as she 
sat watching her sleeping mother, she had been cheered with 
its sprightly note, and maternal care of its young. She look- 
ed to the nest — the birds had flown ; — “ They too,” she ex- 
claimed, “ have gone from our home.” 
t “No, Jane,” replied Mary; “they have been provided 
wfth, another home ; and He who careth for them, will care 
much more for you.” 

Mary might have quoted (but she was not addicted to any 
profane works) the beautiful language of a native poet — 


38 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


u He who from zone to zone 

Guides through the boundless sky their certain flight, 

In the long way that you must trace alone, 

Will guide your steps aright.” 

“We shall not,” she said, “be at your aunt’s in time for 
breakfast ; here, tie on your hat, .you will need all your 
strength and courage, and you must not waste any on flowers 
and birds.” 

Jane obeyed the wise admonition of her friend ; and with 
faltering steps, and without allowing herself time to look 
again at any thing, hastily passed through the little court- 
yard in front of their house. 

The morning was clear and bright ; and stimulated by 
the pure air, and nerved by the counsels Mary suggested as 
they walked along, Jane entered her new home with a man- 
ner that indicated the struggle of her self-respect with her 
timidity. 

Perhaps her timidity, appealing to Mrs. Wilson’s love of 
authority, produced a softer feeling than she had before shown 
to Jane; or perhaps (for scarcely any nature is quite harden- 
ed), the forlornness of the child awakened a transient senti- 
ment of compassion, — she took her hand, and told her she 
was welcome. The children stared at her, as if they had 
never seen her before, but Jane’s down-cast eye, a little cloud- 
ed by the gathering tears, saved her from feeling the gaze of 
their vulgar curiosity. 

Jane, in entering the family of Mrs. Wilson, was intro- 
duced to as new a scene as if she had been transported to a 
foreign country. 

Mrs. Wilson’s character might have been originally cast 
in the same mould with Mr. Elton’s, but circumstances had 
given it a different modification. She had married early in 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


39 


life a man, who, not having energy^ enough for the exercise of 
authority, was weak and vain, tenacious of the semblance, 
and easily cozened by the shadow, while his wife retained the 
substance. Mrs. Wilson, without having the pride of her 
nature at all subdued, became artful and trickish ; she was 
sordid and ostentatious ; a careful fellow-worker with her hus- 
band in the acquisition of their property, she secured to her- 
self all the power and reputation of its outlay. Whenever a 
contribution was levied for an Education or Tract Society, for 
Foreign Missions, the Cherokees, or Osages, — Mrs. Wilson 
accompanied her donation, which on the whole was quite 
handsome, with a remark, that what she did give, she gave 
with a willing heart ; that women could not command much 
money, for it was-the duty of wives to submit themselves to 
their husbands. After Mrs. Wilson became sole mistress of 
her estate, the simple and credulous, who remembered her 
professions, wondered her gifts were not enlarged with her 
liberty. But Mrs. Wilson would say that the widow was the 
prey of the wicked, and that her duty to her children pre- 
vented her indulging her generous feelings towards those 
pious objects which lay nearest her heart. 

Mrs. Wilson had fancied herself one of the subjects of an 
awakening at an early period of her life ; had passed through 
the ordeal of a church-examination with great credit, having 
depb ted in glowing colors the opposition of her natural heart 
to the decrees, and her subsequent joy in the doctrine of elec- 
tion She thus assumed the form of godliness without feel- 
ing its power. We fear that in those times of excitement, 
during which many pass from indifference to holiness, and 
many are converted from sin to righteousness, there are also 
many who, like Mrs. Wilson, delude themselves and others 
with vain forms of words, and professions of faith. 


40 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


Mrs. Wilson was often heard to denounce those who in- 
sisted on the necessity of good works, as Pharisees ; — she was 
thankful, she said, that she should not presume to appear 
before her Judge with any of the “ filthy rags of her own 
righteousness — it would be easy getting to heaven if the 
work in any way depended on ourselves ; — any body could 
“ deal justly, love mercy, and walk humbly.” How easy it is, 
we leave to those to determine who have sought to adjust 
their lives by this divine rule. 

Mrs. Wilson rejected the name of the Pharisee ; but the 
proud, oppressive, bitter spirit of the Jewish bigot was mani- 
fest in the complacency with which she regarded her own 
faith, and the illiberality she cherished toward^every person, 
of every denomination, who did not believe what she believed, 
and act according to her rule of right. As might be expected, 
her family was regulated according to “ the letter,” but the 
“ spirit that giveth life,” was not there. Religion was the os- 
tensible object of every domestic arrangement ; but you might 
look in vain for the peace and good will which a voice from 
heaven proclaimed to be the objects of the mission of our 
Lord. 

Mrs. Wilson’s children produced such fruits as might be 
expected from her culture. The timid among them had re- 
course to constant evasion, and to the meanest artifices to 
hide the violation of laws which they hated ; and the bolder 
were epgaged in a continual conflict with the mother, in which 
rebellion often trampled on authority. 

Jane had been gently led in the bands of love. She had 
been taught even more by the example than the precepts of 
her mother. 

She had seen her mother bear with meekness the asperity 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


41 


and unreasonableness of her father’s temper, and often turn 
away his wrath with a soft answer. 

The law of imitation is deeply impressed on our nature. 
J ane had insensibly fallen into her mother’s ways, and had, 
thus early, acquired a habit of self-command. Mrs. Elton, 
though, alas, negligent of some of her duties, watched over 
the expanding character of her child with Christian fidelity. 
“ There she had garnered up her heart.” She knew that 
amiable dispositions were not to be trusted, and she sought 
to fortify her child’s mind with Christian, principles. She 
sowed the seed, and looked with undoubting faith for the 
promised blessing. 

{i I must soon sleep,” she would say to Mary, “ 
seed is already springing up. I am sure it will not lack the 
dews* of Heaven ; and you, Mary, may live to see, though 1 
shall not, ‘ first the blade, then the ear, and after that ,the full 
corn in the ear.’ ” 

Mary had seconded Mrs. Elton’s efforts. She looked 
upon herself as an humble instrument ; but she was a most 
efficient one. She had a rare and remarkable knack at ap- 
, plying rules, so that her life might be called a commentary 
on the precepts of the Gospel. Mary’s practical religion had, 
sometimes, conveyed a reproach (the only reproach a Chris- 
tian may indulge in) to Mrs. Wilson, who revenged herself 
by remarking, that “ Mary was indulging in that soul-destroy- 
ing doctrine of the Methodists — perfection and then she 
would add (jogging her foot, a motion that, with her, always 
indicated a mental parallel, the result of which was, 1 I am 
holier than thou ’), “ there is no error so fatal, as resting in 
the duties of the second table.” Mrs. Wilson had not learned 
that the duties of the second table cannot be done, if the 
others are left undone ; the branches must be sustained by 


bu^ the 


42 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


the trunk ; for He, from whose wisdom there is no appeal, has 
said, “ If ye love me, ye will keep my commandments.” 

Happily for our little friend, Mary was not to he re- 
moved far from her ; an agreeable situation was, unexpect- 
edly, offered to her grateful acceptance. 


t 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


43 


* 


CHAPTER III. 

Now Spring returns, but not to me returns 
The vernal year my better days have known ; 

Dim in my breast life’s dying taper burns, 

And all the joys of life with health are flown. 

Bruce. 

A few weeks before the death of Mrs. Elton, a Mr. Lloyd, a 
Quaker, who was travelling with his wife and infant child, 
for the benefit of Mrs. Lloyd’s health, had stopped at the inn 
in . Mrs. Lloyd was rapidly declining with consump- 

tion. On this day she had, as is not unfrequent in the fluc- 
tuation of this disease, felt unusually well. Her cough was 
lulled by the motion of the carriage, and she had requested 
her husband to permit her to ride further than his prudence 
would have dictated. 

The heat and unusual exertion proved too much for her. 
In the evening she was seized with a hemorrhage, which re- 
duced her so much as to render it unsafe to move her. She 
faded away quietly, and fell into the arms of death as gently 
as a leaf falleth from its stem, resigning her spirit in faith to 
"Him who gave it. 

An extraordinary attachment subsisted between Mr. and 
Mrs. Lloyd, which had its foundation in the similarity of 


44 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


their characters, education, views, and pursuits ; and had been 
nourished by the circumstances that had drawn and kept 
them together. 

Three years after their marriage, Mrs. Lloyd gave birth 
to a girl. This event filled up the measure of their joy. A 
few weeks after its birth, as Mr. Lloyd took the infant from 
its mother’s bosom, and pressed it fondly to his own, he said, 

“ Rebecca, the promise is to us and our children ; the Lord 
grant that we may train His gift in His nurture and admo- 
nition.” 

u Thou mayest, dear Robert ; God grant it,” Rebecca 
mournfully replied ; a but the way is closed up to me. Do not 
shudder thus, but prepare thy mind for the ‘ will of the Lord.’ 

I could have wished to have lived, for thy sake and my little 
one ; but I will not rebel, for I know all is right.” 

Mr. Lloyd hoped his wife was needlessly alarmed ; but 
he found from her physician, that immediately after the birth 
of the child, some alarming symptoms had appeared, which 
indicated a hectic. Mrs. Lloyd had begged they might be 
concealed from her husband, from the generous purpose of 
saving him, as long as possible, useless anxiety. The disease, 
however, had taken certain hold, and that morning, after a 
conversation with her physician, during which her courage 
had surprised him, she resolved to begin the difficult task of 
fortifying her husband for the approaching calamity. 

Spring came on, and its sweet influences penetrated to 
the sick room of Rebecca. Her health seemed amended, and 
her spirits refreshed ; and when Mr. Lloyd proposed that 
they should travel, she cheerfully consented. But she cau- 
tioned her husband not to be flattered by an apparent amend-* 
merit, for. said she, u though my wayward disease may be 
coaxed into a little clemency, it will not spare me.” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


45 


As she prophesied, her sufferings were mitigated ; but it 
was but too manifest that no permanent amendment was to 
be expected. The disease made very slow progress ; one 
would have thought it shrunk from marring so young and so 
fair a work. Her spirit, too, enjoyed the freedom and beauty 
of the country. As they passed up the fertile shores of the 
Connecticut, Rebecca’s benevolent heart glowed with grati- 
tude to the Father of all, at the spectacle of so many of her 
fellow-creatures enjoying the rich treasures of Providence ; 
cast into a state of society the happiest for their moral im- 
provement, where they had ^neither the miseries of poverty, 
nor the temptations of riches. She would raise her eyes to 
the clear heaven, would look on the “ misty mountain’s top,” 
and then on the rich meadows through which they were pass- 
ing, and which were now teeming with the summer’s fulness, 
and would say, “ Hear Robert, is there any heart so cold, 
that it does not melt in this - vision of the power and the 
bounty of the Lord of heaven and earth ? Ho not sorrow for 
me, when I am going to a more perfect communion with Him, 
for I shall see him as he is.” 

From the Connecticut they passed by the romantic road 
that leads through the plains of West Springfield, Westfield, 
&c. There is no part of our country, abundant as it is in the 
charms of nature, more lavishly adorned with romantic 
scenery. The carriage slowly traced its way on the side of 
a mountain, from which the imprisoned road had with diffi- 
culty been won ; a noisy stream dashed impetuously along at 
their left, and as they ascended the mountain, they still heard 
it before them, leaping from rock to rock, now almost losing 
itself in the deep pathway it had made, and then rushing with 
increased violence over its stony bed. 

“This young stream,” said Mr. Lloyd, “xeminds one of 


46 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


the turbulence of headstrong childhood : I can hardly believe 
it to be the same we admired, so leisurely winding its peace- 
ful way into the bosom of the Connecticut.” 

“ Thou likest the sobriety of maturity,” replied Rebecca ; 
u but I confess that there is something delightful to my ima- 
gination in the elastic bound of this infant stream ; it reminds 
me of the joy of untamed spirits, and undiminished strength.” 

The travellers’ attention was withdrawn from the wild 
scene before them to the appearance of the heavens, by their 
coachman, who observed that “ never in his days had he seen 
clouds make so fast ; it was not,*” he said, u five minutes since 
the first speck rose above the hill before them, and now there 
was not enough blue sky for a man to swear by : — but,” add- 
ed he, looking with a lengthening visage to what he thought 
an interminable hill before them, “ the lightning will be 
saved the trouble of coming down to us, for if my poor beasts 
ever get us to the top, we may'reach up and take it.” 

Having reached the top of the next acclivity, they per- 
ceived by the roadside, a log hut ; over the door was a 
slab, with a rude and mysterious painting (which had been 
meant for a foaming can and a plate of gingerbread), explain- 
ed underneath by “ cake and beer for sale.” This did not 
look very inviting, but it promised a better shelter from the 
rain, for the invalid, than the carriage could afford. Mr. 
Lloyd opened the door, and lifted his wife over a rivulet, 
which actually ran between the sill of the house and the floor- 
planks that had not originally been long enough for the di- 
mensions of the apartment. 

The mistress of the mansion, a fat middle-aged woman, 
who sat with a baby in her arms at a round table, at which 
there were four other children eating from a pewter dish 
placed in the middle, rose, and having ejected the eldest boy 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


47 


from^a chair by a very unceremonious slap, offered it to Mrs. 
Lloyd, and resumed her seat, quietly finishing her meal. 
Her husband, a ruddy, good-natured, hardy-looking moun- 
taineer, had had the misfortune, by some accident in his child- 
hood, to lose the use of both his legs, which were now ingeni- 
ously folded into the same chair on which he sat. He turn- 
ed to the coachman, who, having secured his horses, had just 
entered, and smiling at his consternation, said, “ Why, friend, 
you look scare’t, pretty pokerish weather, to be sure, but 
then we don’t mind it up here then turning to the child 
next him, who, in gazing at the strangers, had dropped half 
the food she was conveying to her mouth, he said, — “ JDesde- 
mony r don’t scatter the ’tatoes so.” — “But last week,” he 
continued, resuming his address to the coachman, “ there was 
the most tedious spell of weather I have sen the week before 
last thanksgiving, when my wife and I went down into the 
lower part of Becket, to hear Beacon Hollister’s funeral sar- 
mont — Don’t you remember, Tempy, that musical fellow that 
was there ? — ‘ I don’t see,’ says he, 1 the use of the minister 
preaching up so much about hell-fire,’ says he, 1 it is a very 
good doctrine,’ says he, ‘to preach down on Connecticut 
B-iver, but,’ says he, ‘ I should not think it would frighten any 
body in such a cold place as Becket.’ ” 

A bright flash, that seemed to fire the heavens, succeeded 
by a tremendous clap of thunder, which made the hovel trem- 
ble, terrified all the group, except the fearless speaker. 

“ A pretty smart flash to be sure ; but, as I was saying, 
it is nothing to that storm we had last week. — Valorus , pull 
that hat out of the window, so the gentleman can see. — 
There, sir,” said he, “just look at that big maple tree, that 
was blown down, if it had come one yard nearer my house, 
it would have crushed it to atoms. Ah, this is a nice place 


48 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


as you will find any where,” he continued (for he saw Mr. 
Lloyd was listening attentively to him), “ to bring up boys ; 
it makes them hardy and spirited, to live here with the wind 
roaring about them, and the thunder rattling right over their 
heads : why they don’t mind it any more than my woman’s 
spinning-wheel, which, to be sure, makes a dumb noise some- 
times.” 

Our travellers were not a little amused with the humour 
of this man, who had a natural philosophy that a stoic might 
have envied. “ Friend,” said Mr. Lloyd, 11 you have a singu- 
lar fancy about names ; what may be the name of that chubby 
little girl who is playing with my wife’s fan ?” 

“ Yes, sir, I am a little notional about names ; that girl, 
sir, I call Octavy , and that lazy little dog that stands by her, 
is Rodolphus .” 

“ And this baby,” said Mr. Lloyd, kindly giving the as- 
tonished little fellow his watch chain to play with, “ this must 
be Vespasian or Agricola.” 

“ No, sir, no ; I met with a disappointment about that 
boy’s name — what you may call a slip between the cup and 
the lip — when he was born, the women asked me what I 
meant to call him ? I told them I did not mean to be in 
any hurry ; for you must know, sir, the way I get my names, 
I buy a book of one of them pedlers that are going over the 
mountain with tin-ware and brooms, and books and pamphlets, 
and one notion and another ; that is, I don’t buy out and 
out, but we make a swap ; they take some of my wooden 
dishes, and let me have the vally in books ; for you must 
know I am a great reader, and mean all my children shall 
have laming too, though it is pretty tough scratching for it. 
Well, sir, as I was saying about this boy, I found a name 
just to hit my fancy, for I can pretty generally suit myself ; 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


49 


the name was Sophronius ; but just about that time, as the 
deuce would have it, my wife’s father died, and the gin’ral 
had been a very gin’rous man to us, and so to compliment the 
old gentleman, I concluded to call him Solomon Wheeler.” 

Mr. Lloyd smiled, and throwing a dollar into the baby’s 
lap, said, “ There is something, my little fellow, to make up 
for your loss.” The sight and the gift of a silver dollar pro- 
duced a considerable sensation among the mountaineers. 
The children gathered round the baby to examine the splen- 
did favour. The mother said, “ The child was not old enough 
to make its manners to the gentleman, but he was as much 
beholden to him as if he could.” The father only seemed 
insensible, and contented himself with remarking, with his 
usual happy nonchalance,, that he “ guessed it was easier get- 
ting money down country, than it was up on the hills.” 

“ Very true, my friend,” replied Mr. Lloyd, “ and I should 
like to know how you support your family here. You do not 
appear to have any farm.” 

“ No, Sir”’ replied the man, laughing, u it would puzzle 
me, with my legs, to take care of a farm ; but then I always 
say, that as long as a man has his wits he has something to 
work with. This is a pretty cold sappy soil up here, but we 
make out to raise all our sauce,* and enough besides to fat a 
couple of pigs on ; then, Sir, as you see, my woman and I 
keep a stock of cake and beer, and tansy bitters — a nice 
trade for a cold stomach ; there is considerable travel on the 
road, and people get considerable dry by the time they get 
up here, and we find it a good business ; and then I turn 
wooden bowls and dishes, and go out peddling once or twice 
a-year ; and there is not an old woman, or a young one either, 

* Sauce, pronounced . saaee , is a common name for vegetables in New- 
England. 


3 


50 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


for the matter of that, but I can coax them to buy a dish or 
two : I take my pay in provisions or clothing ; all the cash 
I get is by the beer and cake : and now Sir, though I say it, 
that may be should not say it, there is not a more indepen- 
dent man in the town of Becket than I am, though there is 
them that’s more forehanded ; but I pay my minister’s tax 
and my school-tax as reg’lar as any of them.” 

Mr. Lloyd admired the ingenuity and contentment of 
this man, his enjoyment of the privilege, the “ glorious privi- 
lege,” of every New- England man, of “being independent.” 
But his pleasure was somewhat abated by an appearance of 
a want of neatness and order, which would have contributed 
so much to the comfort of the family, and which, being a 
Quaker, he deemed essential to it. 

He looked at the little stream of water we have men- 
tioned, and which the rain had already swollen so much that 
it seemed to threaten an inundation of the house ; and 
observing that neither the complexion of the floor nor of the 
children seemed to have been benefited by its proximity, 
he remarked to the man that he u should think a person of 
his ingenuity would have contrived some mode of turning 
the stream.” 

“ Why, yes, Sir,” said the man, “ I suppose I might, for 
I have got a book that treats upon hydrostatics and them 
things ; but I’m calculating to build in the fall, and so I 
think we may as well musquash along till then.” 

“ To build ! Do explain to me how that is to be done ?” 

u Why, Sir,” said he, taking a box from the shelf behind 
him, which had a hole in the centre of the top, through 
which the money was passed in, but afforded no facility for 
withdrawing it, “ my woman and I agreed to save all the 
cash we could get for two years, and I Should not be afraid 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


51 


to venture there is thirty dollars there, Sir. The neighbors 
in these parts are very kind to a poor man ; one will draw 
the timber, and another will saw the hoards, and they will 
all come to raising, and bring their own spirits into the bar- 
gain. Oh. Sir, it must be a poor shack that can’t make a 
turn to get a house over his head.” 

Mr. Lloyd took ten dollars from his pocket-book, and 
slipping it into the gap, said, u There is a small sum, my 
friend, and I wish it may be so expended as to give to thy 
new dwelling such conveniences as will enable thy wife to 
keep it neat. It will help on the trade, too ; for depend 
upon it, there is nothing makes a house look so inviting to a 
traveller as cleanliness and order;” 

Our mountaineer’s indifference was vanquished by so 
valuable a donation. u You are the most gin’rous man, Sir,” 
said he, “ that ever journeyed this way ; and if I don’t 
remember your advice, you may say there is no such thing 
as gratitude upon earth.” 

By this time the rain had subsided, the clouds were roll- 
ing over, the merry notes of the birds sallying from their 
shelters, welcomed the returning rays of the sun, and the 
deep, unclouded azure in the west promised a delightful 
afternoon. 

The travellers took a kind leave of the grateful cottagers, 
and as they drove away — “ Tempy,” said the husband, “ if 
the days of miracles weren’t quite entirely gone by, I should 
think we had 4 entertained angels unawares.’ ” 

“ I think you might better say,” replied the good woman, 
u that the angels have entertained us ; any how, that sick 
lady will be an angel before long ; she looks as good and as 
beautiful as one now.” 

It was on the evening of this day, that Mr. and Mrs. 


52 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


Lloyd arrived at the inn in the village of , which, as 

we have before stated, was the scene where her excellent and 
innocent life closed. She expressed a desire that she might 
not be removed ; she wished not to have the peace of her 
mind interrupted by any unnecessary agitation. Whenever 
she felt herself a little better, she would pass a part of the 
day in riding. Never did any one in the full flush of health 
enjoy more than she, from communion with her Heavenly 
Father, through the visible creation. She read with under- 
standing the revelations of his goodness, in the varied ex- 
pressions of nature’s beautiful face. 

“ Ho you know,” said she to her husband, “ that I prefer 
the narrow vales of the Housatonic to the broader lands of 
the Connecticut ? It certainly matters little where our dust 
is laid, if it be consecrated by Him who is the ‘ resurrection 
and the life but I derive a pleasure which I could not have 
conceived of, from the expectation of having my body repose 
in this still valley, under the shadow of that beautiful hill.” 

“ I, too, prefer this scenery,” said Mr. Lloyd, seeking to 
turn the conversation, for he could not yet but contemplate 
with dread, what his courageous wife spoke of with a tone of 
cheerfulness. “ I prefer it, because it has a more domestic 
aspect. There is, too, a more perfect and intimate union of 
the sublime and beautiful. These mountains that surround 
us, and are so near to us on every side, seem to me like natu- 
ral barriers, by which the Father has secured for His chil- 
dren the gardens He has planted for them by the river’s 
side.” 

11 Yes,” said Rebecca, “ and methinks they inclose a sanc- 
tuary, a temple, from which the brightness of His presence 
is never withdrawn. Look,” said she, as the carriage passed 
over a hill that rose above the valley, and was a crown of 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


53 


beauty to it ; “ look, how gracefully and modestly that beau- 
tiful stream winds along under the broad shadows of those 
trees and clustering vines, as if it sought to hide the beauty 
that sparkles so brightly whenever a beam* of light touches 
it. Oh ! my Rebecca,” said she, turning fondly to her child, 
f I could wish thy path led along these Still waters, far from 
the stormy waves of the rude world— far from its ‘ vanities 
and vexation of spirit.’” 

“ If that is thy wish, my love,” said her husband, looking 
earnestly at her, “ it shall be a law to me.” 

Mrs. Lloyd’s tranquillity had been swept away for a mo- 
ment, by the rush of thought that was produced by casting 
her mind forward to the destiny of her child ; but it was 
only for a moment. Hers was the trust of a mind long and 
thoroughly disciplined by Christian principles. Her face 
resumed its wonted repose, as she said, “ Hear Robert, I 
have no wish but to leave all to thy discretion, under the 
guidance of the Lord.” 

It cannot be deemed strange that Mr. Lloyd should have 
felt a particular interest in scenes for which his wife had 
expressed such a partiality. He looked upon them with 
much the same feeling that the sight of a person awakens 
who has been loved by a departed friend. They seemed to 

have a sympathy for him ; and he lingered at without 

forming any plan for the future, till he was roused from his 
inactivity by hearing the sale of Mr. Elton’s property spoken 
of. He had passed the place with Rebecca, and they had 
together admired its secluded and picturesque situation. 
The house stood at a little distance from the road, more 
than half hid by two patriarchal elms. Behind the house, 
the grounds descended gradually to the Housatonic, whose 
nourishing dews kept them arrayed in beautiful verdure. 


54 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


On the opposite side of the river, and from its very margin, 
rose a precipitous mountain, with its rich garniture of beach, 
maple, and linden ; tree surmounting tree, and the images of 
all sent back by*the clear mirror below. 

Mr. Lloyd had no family ties to Philadelphia. He pre- 
ferred a country life ; not supinely to dream away existence, 
but he hoped there to' cultivate and employ a “ talent for 
doing good that talent which a noble adventurer declared 
he most valued, and which, though there is a field for its ex- 
ercise wherever any members of the human family are, he 
compassed sea and land to find new worlds in which to ex- 
pend it. x 

Mr. Lloyd purchased the place and furniture, precisely 
as it had been left on the morning of the sale by Jane and 
her friend Mary. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


55 


CHAPTER IV. 

She, half an angel in her own account, 

Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount, 

Though not a grace appears on strictest search, 

But that she fasts, and item, goes to church. 

Cowper. 

The excellent character of Mary Hull had been spoken of to 
Mr. Lloyd by his landlady, and he was convinced that she 
was precisely the person to whom he should be satisfied to 
commit the superintendence of his family. Accordingly, on 
the evening of the sale, he sent a messenger to Mrs. Wilson’s 
with the following note : — 

“Robert Lloyd, having purchased the place of the late Mr. 
Elton, would be glad to engage Mary Hull to take charge of 
his family. Wages, and all other matters shall be arranged 
to her satisfaction. He takes the liberty to send by the 
bearer, for Jane Elton, a work-box, dressing-glass, and a few 
other small articles, for which he has no use, and which must 
have to her a value from association with her late residence.” 

Mrs. Wilson had no notion that any right could be prior 
to hers in her house. She took the note from the servant, 


56 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


and, notwithstanding he ventured to say he believed it was 
not meant for her, she read it first with no very satisfied air, 
and then turning to one of the children, she told her to call 
Mary Hull to her. The servant placed the things on the 
table, and left the room. 

“ So,” said she to Jane, who was looking at her for some 
explanation of the sudden apparition of the work-box, &c. — 
u So, Miss, you have seen fit to disobey the first order I took 
the trouble to give you. I should like to know how you dared 
to leave these things after my positive orders.” 

a I did not understand your note, ma’am, to contain posi- 
tive orders ; and Mary and I did not think it was quite right 
to take the things.” 

“ Right ! pretty judges of right to be sure. She a hired 
girl, and a Methodist into the bargain. I don’t know how 
she dares to judge over my head ; and you, miss, I tell you 
once for all, I allow no child in my house to judge of right 
and wrong ; children have no reason, and they ought to be 
very thankful, when they fall into the hands of those that are 
capable of judging for them. Here,” said she to Mary, who 
now entered in obedience to her summons ; “ here is a propo- 
sal of a place for you, from that Quaker that buried his wife 
last week. I suppose you call yourself your own mistress, 
and you can do as you like about it ; but as you are yet a 
young woman, Mary Hull, and this man is a young widower, 
and nobody knows who, I should think it a great risk for you 
to live with him i for, if nothing worse comes of it, you may 
be sure there is not a person in this town that won’t think 
you are trying to get him for a husband.” 

Mary was highly gratified with the thought of returning 
to the place where she had passed a large and happy portion 
of her life, and she did not hesitate to say, that “ she should 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


57 


not stand so much in her own light as to refuse so excellent 
a place ; that from all she had heard said of Mr. Lloyd, he 
was a'gentleman far above her condition in life ; and there- 
fore she thought no person would be silly enough to suppose 
she took the place from so foolish a design as Mrs. Wilson 
suggested ; and she should take care that her conduct should 
give no occasion for reproach.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Wilson, chagrined that her counsel 
was not compulsory, “ it does amaze me to see how some 
people strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel.” 

Mary did not condescend to notice this remark, but pro- 
ceeded quietly to remove the articles Mr. Lloyd had sent, 
which she succeeded in doing, without any farther remark 
from Mrs. Wilson, who prudently restrained the exercise of 
her authority while there was one present independent 
enough to oppose its current. 

“ Oh, Mary,” said Jane, when they were alone, “how glad 
I am you are going to live with such a good man ; how happy 
you must be ! And I too, Mary ;” and she hastily brushed 
away a tear, “ I am ; at least I should be very happy when I 
have such a kind friend as you are so near to me.” 

“ Yes, yes, dear Jane, try to be happy ; this foolish aunt 
of yours will try you like the fire, but I look to see you come 
out of it as gold from the furnace : keep up a good heart, my 
child, it is a long lane that never turns.” 

The friends separated, but not till Mary had, with her 
usual caution, carefully packed away J ane’s new treasures, 
saying, as she did it, “ that it was best to put temptation out 
of sight,” 

Mary’s plain and neat appearance, and her ingenuous, sen- 
sible countenance, commended her at once to Mr. Lloyd’s 
3 * 


58 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


favor, and she entered immediately upon the duties of her 
new and responsible situation. 

We must now introduce those who are willing to go farther 
with us in the history of Jane Elton, to the family of Mrs. 
Wilson, where they will see she had a school for the disci- 
pline of Christian character. 

“Jane,” said Mrs. Wilson to her on the morning after 
Mary’s departure, “ you know, child, the trouble and expense 
of taking you upon my hands is very great ; but it did not 
seem suitable that, being my brother’s daughter, you should 
be put out at present : you must remember, child, that I am 
at liberty to send you away at any time, whereas, as you will 
always be in debt to me, you can never be at liberty to go 
when you choose. It is a great trial to me to take you, but 
the consciousness of doing my duty, and more than my duty 
to you, supports me under it. Now as to what I expect from 
you : — in the first place, my word must be your law ; you 
must not hesitate to do any thing that I require of you ; 
never think of asking a reason for what I command — it is 
very troublesome and unreasonable to do so. Visiting, you 
must give up entirely ; I allow my children to waste none of 
their time in company : meetings I shall wish you to attend 
when you have not work to do at home ; for I do not wish you 
to neglect the means of grace, though I am sensible that your 
heart muslf be changed before they can do you any good. 
You must help Martha do the ironing, and assist Elvira with 
the clear starching and other matters ; Nancy will want your 
aid about the beds ; Sally is but young, and requires more 
care than I can give her, for my time is at present chiefly 
spent in instructing the young converts ; and therefore I shall 
look to you to take the charge of Sally ; and I expect you to 
do the mending and making for David when he comes home ; 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


59 


the other boys will want now and then a stitch or two ; and, 
in short, miss, (and she increased the asperity of her tone, for 
she thought Jane’s growing gravity indicated incipient rebel- 
lion,) you will be ready to do every thing that is wanted of 
you.” 

Jane was summoning resolution to reply, when both her 
and her aunt’s attention was called to a rustling at the win- 
dow, and crazy Bet thrust her head in — 

“ Go on,” said she, “ and fill up the measure of your ini- 
quities ; load her with burthens heavy and grievous to be 
borne, and do not touch them with one of your fingers. — 
There, Jane,” said she, throwing her a bunch of carnations, 
“ I have just come from the quarterly meeting, and I stopped 
as I came past your house, and picked these, for I thought 
their bright colors would be a temptation to the Quaker. And 
I thought too,” said she, laughing, “ there should be some- 
thing to send up a sweet smelling savour from the altar where 
there are no deeds of mercy laid.” 

“ Out of my yard instantly, you dirty beggar !” said Mrs. 
Wilson. 

Bet turned, but not quickening her step, and went away, 
singing, “ Glory, glory, hallelujah.” 

u Aunt,” said Jane, u do not mind the poor creature. She 
does not mean to offend you. I believe she feels for me ; for 
she has been sheltered many a time from the cold and the 
storms in our house.” 

“ Don’t give yourself the least uneasiness, miss. I am 
not to be disturbed by a crazy woman ; but I do not see 
what occasion there is for her feeling for you. You have not 
yet answered me.” 

u I have no answer to make, ma’am,” replied Jane, meek- 
ly, “ but that I shall do my best to content you. I am very 


60 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


young, and not much used to work, and I may have been too 
kindly dealt with ; but that is all over now.” 

u Do you mean, miss, to say, that I shan’t treat you kindly?” 

“ No, aunt, but I meant excuse me, if I meant any 

thing wrong.” 

“ I did expect, miss, to hear some thankfulness expressed.” 

. u I do, ma’am, feel grateful, that I have a shelter over my 
head ; what more I have to be grateful for, time must de- 
termine.” 

There was a dignity in Jane’s manner, that, with the 
spirit of the reply, taught Mrs. Wilson that she had, in her 
niece, a very different subject to deal with from her own wil- 
ful and trickish children. “ Well, Miss Jane, I shall expect 
no haughty airs in my house, and you will please now to tell 
the girls to be ready to go with me to the afternoon confer- 
ence,* and prepare yourself to go also. One more thing I 
have to say to you, you must never look to me for any cloth- 
ing ; that cunning Mary has packed away enough to last you 
fifty years. With all her Methodism, I will trusf her to 
feather your nest, and her own too.” 

u Alas !” thought Jane, as she went to execute her aunt’s 
commission, “ what good does it do my poor aunt to go to 
conference ?” Perhaps this question would not have occurred 
to many girls of thirteen ; but Jane had been accustomed to 
scan the motives of her conduct, and to watch for the fruit. 
The aid extended to our helpless orphan by her pharisaical 
aunt, reminds us of the “ right of asylum ” afforded by the 
ancients to the offenders who were allowed to take shelter in 
the temples of their gods, and suffered to perish there. 

She found the girls very much indisposed to the afternoon 


Meeting for conversation on religious topics. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


61 


meeting. Martha said she “ would not go to hear Deacon 
Barton’s 'everlasting prayers ; she had heard so many of them, 
she knew them all by heart.” 

Elvira had just got possession, by stealth, of a new novel; 
that species of reading being absolutely prohibited in Mrs. 
Wilson’s house, she had crept up to the garret, and was prom- 
ising herself a long afternoon of stolen pleasure. “ Oh, Jane,” 
said she, “ why can’t you go down and tell mother you can’t 
find me. Just tell her, you guess I have gone down to Miss 
Banker’s, to inquire whether the tracts have come ; that’s a 
good thought ;” and she was resuming her book, when seeing 
Jane did not move, she added, “ I’ll do as much for you any 
time.” 

“ I shall never wish you to do as much for me, Elvira.” 

“ I do not think it is so very much, just to go down stairs ; 
besides, Jane,” she added, imperiously, “ Mother says, you 
must do whatever we ask you to.” 

Elvira was so habituated to deceit, that it never occurred 
to her, that the falsehood was the difficult part of the errand 
to Jane; and when Jane said, “Cousin Elvira, I will do 
whatever is reasonable for you, and no more ; any thing that 
is true, I will tell your mother for you ,” Elvira laughed in 
derision. 

“ Pooh, Jane, you have brought your strict notions to a 
poor market. It was easy enough to get along with the truth 
with your mother, because she would let you have your own 
way on all occasions ; but I can tell you, disguises are the 
only wear in our camp !” 

« I shall not use them, Elvira. I should dread their be- 
ing stripped off.” 

« Oh, not at all. Mother seldom takes the trouble to in- 
quire into it ; and if she does, now and then, by accident. 


62 


A NEW. ENGLAND TALE. 


detect it, tlie storm soon blows over. She has caught me in 
many a white lie, and black one too, and she has not been 
half so angry as when I have torn my frock, or lost a glove. 
Why, child, if you are going to fight your battles with mother 
with plain truth, you will find yourself without shield or 
buckler.” 

“ Ah, Elvira !” replied Jane, smiling, 

li That’s no battle, ev’ry body knows, 

Where one side only gives the blows.” 

tl That’s ti-ue enough, Jane. Well, if you will not help 
me off from the conference, I must go. Sweet Vivaldi,” said 
she, kissing her book, and carefully hiding it in a dark corner 
of the garret, “ must I part with thee ?” 

“ One would think,” said Jane, “ you were parting with 
your lover.” 

“ I am, my dear. I always fancy, when I read a novel,, 
that I am the heroine, and the hero is one of my favourites j 
and then I realize it all, and it appears so natural.” 

Elvira was not, at heart, an ill-natured girl ; but having 
a weak understanding, and rather a fearful, unresisting tem- 
per, she had been driven by her mother’s mode of treatment 
into the practice of deceit ; and she being the weaker party, 
used in her warfare as many arts as a savage practises to- 
wards a civilized enemy. A small stock of original invention 
may be worked up into a vast deal of cunning. Elvira had 
been sent one quarter to a distant boarding-school, where her 
name had attracted a young lady, whose, head had been 
turned by love-stories. They had formed a league of eternal 
friendship, which might have a six months’ duration ; and 
Elvira had returned to her home, at the age of sixteen, with 
a farrago of romance superadded to her home-bred duplicity. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


63 


Martha was two years older than her sister, and more like 
her mother : violent and self-willed, she openly resisted her 
mother’s authority, whenever it opposed her wishes. From 
such companions, Jane soon found she had nothing to expect 
of improvement or pleasure ; but, though it may seem quite 
incredible to some, she was not unhappy. The very labour 
her aunt imposed on her was converted into a blessing, for it 
occupied her mind, and saved her from brooding on the hap- 
py past, or the unhappy present. She now found exercise 
for the domestic talents Mary had so skilfully cultivated. 
Even the unrelenting Mrs. Wilson was once heard to say, 
with some apparent pleasure, that “ Jane was gifted at all 
sorts of work.” Her dexterous hand was often put in requi- 
sition by her idle and slatternly cousins, and their favour was 
sometimes won by her kind offices. But more than all, and 
above all, as a source of contentment and cheerfulness — 
-better far than ever was boasted of perennial springs, or 
u Amreeta cups of immortality” — was Jane’s unfailing habit 
of regulating her daily life by the sacred rules of our blessed 
Lord. She would steal from her bed at the dawn of day, 
when the songs of the birds were interpreting the stillness of 
nature, and beauty and fragrance breathing incense to the 
Maker, and join her devotions to the choral praise. At this 
hour she studied the word of truth and life, and a holy beam 
of light fell from it on her path through the day. Her pleas- 
ures at this social period of her life were almost all solitary, 
except when she was indulged in a visit to Mary, whose eye 
was continually watching over her with maternal kindness. 
The gayety of her childhood had been so sadly checked by 
the change of her fortunes, that her countenance had taken 
rather a serious and reserved cast. Mr. Lloyd’s benevolent 
feelings were awakened by her appearance ; and Mary, whose 


64 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


chief delight was in expatiating on the character of her fa- 
vourite, took care to confirm his favourable impressions, by 
setting in the broadest light her former felicity, her present 
trials, and her patience in tribulation. 

Mary had orders to leave the furniture in a little room 
that had formerly been assigned to Jane, precisely as she 
left it, and to tell Jane that it was still called, and should be 
considered her room. 

“ And that beautiful honeysuckle, J ane,” said Mr. Lloyd 
to her, “ which thy tasteful hand has so carefully trained 
about the window, is still thine.” 

These, and many other instances of delicate attention 
from Mr. Lloyd, saved her from the feeling of forlornness 
that she might otherwise have suffered. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


65 


CHAPTER V. 

“ I am for other, than for dancing measures.” 

As YOU LIKE IT. 

A few months after Jane entered her aunt’s family, an un- 
usual commotion had been produced in the village of 

by an event of rare occurrence. This was no less than the 
arrival of a dancing-master, and the issuing of proposals for 
a dancing-school. 

This was regarded by some very zealous persons as a 
ruse de guerre of the old Adversary, which, if not success- 
fully opposed, would end in the establishment of his king- 
dom. 

The plan of the disciple of Vestris, was to establish a 
chain of dancing-schools from one extremity of the country to 
the other ; and this was looked upon as a mine which would 
be sprung to the certain destruction of every thing that was 
( virtuous and of good report.’ Some clergymen denounced 
the impending sin from their pulpits. One said, that he had 
searched the Bible from Genesis to Revelation, and as he 
could not find a text that expressly rebuked that enormity, 
he was confirmed in a previous opinion that it was included 
in all general denunciations of sin ! he said that dancing was 


66 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


one of the most offensive of all the rites of those savage na- 
tions that were under the immediate and visible government 
of the prince of this world ; and finally, he referred them to 
the church documents, those precious records of the piety, 
and wisdom, and faithfulness of their ancestors; and they 
would there find a rule which prohibited any church member 
from u frequenting, or being present at, a ball, or dance, or 
frolic, or any such assembly of Satan,” and they would more- 
over find that such transgressions had been repeatedly pun- 
ished by expulsion from the church, and exclusion from all 
Christian ordinances. Some of this gentleman’s brethren 
contented themselves by using their influence in private 
advice and remonstrance ; and a few said they could not see 
the sin nor the danger of the young people’s indulging, with 
moderation, in a healthful exercise and innocent recreation 
adapted to their season of life ; that what the moral and pious 
Locke had strenuously advocated, and the. excellent Watts 
approved, it did not become them to frown upon ; but they 
should use their efforts in restraining the young people 
within the bounds of moderation. 

The result was, that our dancing-master obtained a few 
schools and one in the village which enjoyed the privilege of 
Mrs. Wilson’s light. She, filled with alarm, 4 lifted up her 
voice and spared not.’ Some of her warmest admirers thought 
her clamor had more of valor in it than discretion. 

Notwithstanding the violence of the opposition, and per- 
haps aided by it, the dancing-school was at length fairly 
established, and some of the elderly matrons of the village, 
who had considered dances as the orgies of Satan, were heard 
to confess that, when properly regulated, they might furnish 
an amusement not altogether unsuited to youth, and that 
they did not, in point of propriety, suffer by a comparison 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE, 


67 


with the romps, forfeits, and cushion- dances of their younger 
days. 

At Mrs. Wilson’s instance, two new weekly meetings were 
appointed, on the same evenings with the dancing-school ; 
the one to be a conference in the presence of the young peo- 
ple, and the other a catechetical lecture for them. These her 
daughters were compelled to attend, in spite of the bold and 
turbulent opposition of Martha, and the well-concerted arti- 
fices of Elvira. 

Elvira expressed her surprise at Jane’s patience under 
the new dispensation. “To be sure, Jane,” she said, “you 
have not the trial that I have, about the dancing-school, for a 
poor girl can’t expect such accomplishments. — I do so long 
to dance ! It was in the mazy dance Edward Montreville 
first fell in love with Selina ; — but then these odious — these 
hateful meetings ! Oh, I have certainly a natural antipathy 
to them ; you do not always have to attend them ; mother is 
ready enough to let you off, when there is any hard job to be 
done in the family ; — well, much as I hate work. I had rather 
work than go to meeting. Tell me honestly, Jane, would 
not you like to learn to dance, if you were not obliged to 
wear deep mourning, and could afford to pay for it V 1 

Jane, all used as she was to the coarseness of her cousins, 
would sometimes feel the colour come unbidden to her cheeks, 
and she felt them glow as she replied, “ I learned to dance, 
Elvira, during the year I spent at Mrs. Benson’s boarding- 
school.” 

“ La, is it possible ? I never heard you say a word 
about it.” 

“No,” said Jane; “many things have happened to me 
that you never heard me say a word about.” 

“Oh! I dare say, Miss Jane. Everybody knows your 


68 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


cold, reserved disposition. My sensibility would destroy me, 
if I did not permit it to flow out into a sympathizing bosom.” 

“ But now, J ane,” said she, shutting the door, and lower- 
ing her voice, ‘‘"I have hit upon a capital plan to cheat 
mother. There is to be a little ball to-night, after the school ; 
and I have promised Edward Erskine to go with him to it. 
For once, Jane, be generous, and lend me a helping-hand. In 
the first place, to get rid of the meeting, I am going to put a 
flannel round my throat, to tell my mother it is very sore, 
and I have a head-ache ; and then I shall go to bed ; but as 
soon as she is well out of the house, I shall get up and dress 
me, and wind that pretty wreath of yours, which I’m sure 
you will lend me, around my head, and meet Erskine just at 
the pear-tree, at the end of the garden. Then, as to the 
return, you know you told mother you could not go to 
meeting, because you was going to stay with old Phillis, and 
I just heard the doctor say, he did not believe she would live 
the night through. This is clear luck, what mother would 
call providential. At any rate, you know, if she should not 
be any worse, you can sit up till 12 o’clock, and I will just 
tap at Phillis’s bed-room window, and you won’t refuse, Jane, 
to slip the bolt of the outside door for me.” 

Jane told her she could not take part in her projects ; but 
Elvira, trusting to the impulse of her cousin’s good-nature, 
adhered to her plan. 

Mrs. Wilson was not, on this occasion, so keen-eyed as 
usual. She had, that very day, received proposals of mar- 
riage from a broken merchant ; and though she had no idea 
of hazarding her estates and liberty, she was a good deal flut- 
tered with what she would fain have believed to be a compli- 
ment to her personal charms. Every thing succeeded to El- 
vira’s most sanguine expectations. Her mother went to the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


69 


conference. Elvira, arrayed in all tlie finery her own ward- 
robe supplied, and crowned with Jane’s wreath, went off to 
meet her expecting gallant, leaving Jane by the bedside of 
Phillis ; and there the sweet girl kindly watched alone, till 
after the return of the family from the conference, till after 
the bell had summoned the household to the evening prayer, 
and till after the last lingering sound of fastening doors, win- 
dows, &c., had died away. 

The poor old invalid was really in the last extremity; her 
breathing grew shorter and more interrupted ; her eyes 
assumed a fearful stare and glassiness. J ane’s fortitude for- 
sook her, and she ventured to call her aunt, who had hut 
just entered the room, when the poor creature expired. 

In the last struggle she grasped J ane’s hand ; and as her 
fingers released their hold, and the arm fell beside her, Jane 
raised it up, and gently laying it across her body, and retain- 
ing the hand for a moment in her own, she said, “ Poor 
Phillis ! how much hard work you have done with this hand, 
and how many kindnesses for me. Your troubles are all 
over now.” 

“You take upon you to say a great deal, Jane,” replied 
her aunt. “ Phillis did not give me satisfying evidence of a 
saving faith.” 

“ But,” said J ane, as if she did not quite comprehend the 
import of her aunt’s remark, “ Phillis was very faithful over 
her little.” 

“ That’s nothing to the purpose, Jane,” answered Mrs. 
Wilson. 

Jane made no reply, unless the tear she dropped on her 
old friend might be deenled one, and Mrs. Wilson added, 

u Now, child, you must get the things together, to lay her 
out.” Then saying, that Phillis’s sickness had been a bill of 


70 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


cost to her, and quite overlooking her long life of patient and 
profitable service, she gave the most sordid directions as to 
the selection of provisions for the last wants of the poor me- 
nial. Jane went out of the room to execute her orders. 

She had scarcely gone, when Mrs. Wilson heard the win- 
dow carefully raised, and some one said, “Here I am, Jane; 
go softly and slip the bolt of the west door, and don’t for the 
world wake the old lady.” By any brighter light than the 
dim night lamp that was burning on the hearth, Elvira could 
not have mistaken her dark harsh-visaged mother for her fair 
cousin. A single glance revealed the truth to Mrs. Wilson. 
The moonbeams were playing on the wreath of flowers, and 
Edward Erskine, who was known as the ringleader of the 
ball-faction, stood beside Elvira. She smothered her rage 
for a few moments, and creeping softly to the passage, open- 
ed the door, and admitted the rebel, who followed her to 
Phillis’s room, saying, “ Oh, Jane, you are a dear good soul 
for once. I have had an ecstatic time. Never try to per- 
suade me not to play off a good trick on mother.” By this 
time they had arrived at Phillis’s room, where Jane had just 
entered with a candle in her hand. 

Mrs. Wilson turned to her child, who stood confounded with 
the sudden detection. i( I have caught you,” said she, almost 
bursting with rage ; “ caught you both !” Then seizing the 
wreath of flowers, which she seemed to look upon as the 
hoisted flag of successful rebellion, she threw it on the floor, 
and crushing it with her foot, she grasped the terrified girl, 
and pushed her so violently that she fell on the cold body of 
the lifeless woman : “ and you, viper !” continued the furious 
creature, turning to Jane, “ is this my reward for warming 
you in my bosom? You, with your smooth, hypocritical face, 
teaching my child to deceive and abuse me. But you shall 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


71 


have your reward. You shall see whether I am to he brow- 
beaten by a dependent child in my own house.” 

• J ane had often seen her aunt angry, but she had never 
witnessed such passion as this, and she was for a moment con- 
founded ; but like a delicate plant that bends to the ground 
before a sudden gust of wind, and then is as erect as ever, 
she turned to Mrs. Wilson, and said, “ Ma’am, I have, never 
deceived, or aided others to deceive you.” 

“ I verily believe you lie !” replied her aunt, in a tone of 
undiminished fury. 

Jane looked to her cousin, who had recoiled from the 
cold body of Phillis, and sat in sullen silence on a trunk at 
the foot of the bed, — u Elvira,” said she, “ you will do me the 
justice to tell your mother I had no part in your deception.” 
But Elvira, well pleased to have any portion of the storm 
averted from her own head, had not generosity enough to in- 
terpose the truth. She therefore compromised with her con- 
science, and merely said, u Jane knew I was going.” 

I was sure of it, — I was sure of it ; I always knew she 
was an artful jade ; 1 still waters run deep but she shall be 
exposed ; the mask shall be stripped from the hypocrite.” 

“ Aunt,” said Jane, in a voice so sweet, so composed, that 
it sounded like the breath of music following the howlings of 
an enraged animal ; “ Aunt, we are in the chamber of death ; 
and in a little time you, and I, and all of us, shall be as this 
poor creature ; as you will then wish your soul to be lighten- 
ed of all injustice — spare the innocent now ; you know I never 
deceived you ; Elvira knows it : I am willing to bear any 
thing it pleases God to lay upon me, but I cannot have my 
good name taken, it is all that remains to me.” 

This appeal checked Mrs. Wilson for a moment ; she 
would have replied, but she was interrupted by two colored 


72 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


women, whom she had sent for, to perform the last offices for 
Phillis. She restrained her passion, gave them the necessary 
directions, and withdrew to her own room, where, we doubt 
not, she was followed by the rebukes of her conscience ; for 
however neglected and stifled, its 1 still, small voice’ will be 
heard in darkness and solitude. 

It may seem strange, that Mrs. Wilson should have man- 
ifested such anxiety to throw the blame of this affair on 
Jane; but however a parent may seek, by every flattering 
unction vanity can devise, to evade the truth, the misconduct 
of a child will convey a reproach, and reflect dishonor on the 
author of its existence. 

Jane and Elvira crept to their beds without exchanging a 
single word. Elvira felt some shame at her own meanness ; 
but levity and selfishness always prevailed in her mind, and 
she soon lost all consciousness of realities, and visions of 
dances and music and moonlight floated in her brain ; some- 
times ‘ a change came o’er the spirit of her dream,’ and she 
shrunk from a violent grasp, and felt the icy touch of death ; 
and wherever she turned, a ray from her cousin’s mild' blue 
eye fell upon her, and she could not escape from its silent 
reproach. The mother and the daughter might both have 
envied the repose of the solitary abused orphan, who possess- 
ed 1 a peace they could not trouble.’ She soon lost all mem- 
ory of her aunt’s rage and her cousin’s injustice, and sunk 
into quiet slumbers. In her dream she saw her mother ten- 
derly smiling on her ; and heard again and again the last 
words of the old woman: u the Lord bless you, Miss Jane ! 
the Lord will bless you, for your kindness to old Phillis.” 

If Mrs. Wilson had not been blinded by self-love, she 
might have learnt an invaluable lesson from the’ melancholy 
results of her own mal-government ; but she preferred incur- 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 73 

ring every evil, to the relinquishment of one of the preroga 
tives of power. Her children, denied the appropriate pleas- 
ures of youth, were driven to sins of a much deeper dye than 
those which Mrs. Wilson sought to avoid could have had, 
even in her eyes ; for surely the very worst effects that ever 
were attributed to dancing, or to romance-reading, cannot 
equal the secret dislike of a parent’s authority, the risings of 
the heart' against a parent’s tyranny, and the falsehood and 
meanness that weakness always will employ in the evasion of 
power; and than which nothing will more certainly taint 
every thing that is pure in the character. 

The cool reflection of the morning pointed out to Mrs. 
Wilson, as the most discreet, the very line of conduct justice 
would have dictated.’ She knew she could not accuse Jane, 
without exposing Elvira, and besides, she did not care to have 
it known that her sagacity had been outwitted by these chil- 
dren. Therefore, though she appeared at breakfast more 
sulky and unreasonable than usual, she took no notice of the 
transactions of the preceding night, and they remained secret 
to all but the actors in them ; except that we have reason to 
believe, from Mr. Lloyd’s increased attention to Jane, shortly 
after, that they had been faithfully transmitted to him by 
Mary Hull, the balm of whose sympathy it cannot be deemed 
wonderful our little solitary should seek. 


4 


74 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


CHAPTER VI. 

These are fine feathers, but what bird were they plucked from? 

Esop. 

There is nothing in New England so eagerly sought for, or 
so highly prized by all classes of people, as the advantages of 
education. A farmer and his wife will deny themselves all 
other benefits that might result from the gains that have ac- 
crued to them from a summer of self-denial and toil, to give 
their children the 'privilege of a grammar-school during the 
winter. The public, or as they are called, the town-schools , 
are open to the child of the poorest laborer. As knowledge 
is one of the best helps and most certain securities to virtue, 
we doubtless owe a great portion of the morality of this blessed 
region, where there are no dark corners of ignorance, to these 
wise institutions of our pious ancestors. 

In the fall subsequent to the events we have recorded, a 

school had been opened in the village of , of a higher 

and more expensive order, than is common in a country town. 
Every mouth was filled with praises of the new teacher, and 
with promises and expectations of the knowledge to be 
derived from this newly opened fountain ; all was bustle and 
preparation among the young companions of Martha and El- 
vira for the school ; for Martha, though beyond the usual 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


75 


school-going age, was to complete her education at the new 
seminary. 

The dancing-sclMX)l had passed without a sigh of regret 
from Jane ; but now she felt severely her privation. Her 
watchful friend, Mary Hull, remarked the melancholy look 
that was unheeded at her aunt’s; and she inquired of Jane, 
“ Why she was so downcast?” 

“ Ah, Mary !” she replied, u it is a long time since I have 
felt the merry spirit which the wise man says, is ‘medicine 
to the heart.’ ” 

“ That’s true, Jane ; but then there’s nobody, that is, 
there’s nobody that has so little reason for it as you have, 
that has a more cheerful look.” 

“ I have great reason to be cheerful, Mary, in token of 
gratitude for my kind friends here ; and,” added she, taking 
Mr. Lloyd’s infant, who playfully extended her arms to her, 
“ you and I are too young, Rebecca, to be very sad.” The 
child felt the tear that dewed the cheek to which she was 
pressed, and looking into Jane’s face, with instinctive sympa- 
thy, burst into tears. Mr. Lloyd entered at this moment, 
and Jane hastily replacing the child in Mary Hull’s lap, and 
tying on her hat, bade them farewell. 

Mr. Lloyd asked for some explanation. Mary believed 
nothing particular had happened. “ But,” she said, “ the 
poor girl’s spirit wearies with the life she leads ; it’s a chore 
to live with Mrs. Wilson — a great change from a home and 
mother, to such a work-house and such a task-woman.” 

Mr. Lloyd had often regretted, that it was so little in his 
power to benefit Jane. The school occurred to him ; and as 
nothing was more improbable than that Mrs. Wilson would, 
herself, incur the expense of Jane’s attendance, he consulted 
with Maiy as to the best mode of doing it himself, without 


76 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


provoking Mrs. Wilson’s opposition, or offending her pride. 
A few days after, when the agent for the school presented the 
subscription list to Mrs. Wilson for her signature, she saw 
there, to her utter astonishment, Jane Elton’s name. The 
agent handed her an explanatory note from Mr. Lloyd, in 
which he said, “ that as it had been customary to send one 
person from the house he now occupied to the c subscription 
school,’ he had taken the liberty to continue the custom. He 
hoped the measure would meet with Mrs. Wilson’s approba- 
tion, without which it could not go into effect.” 

Mrs. Wilson, at first, said % it was impossible ; she could 
not spare Jane ; but afterwards, she consented to take it into 
consideration. The moment the man had shut the door, she 
turned to Jane, and misunderstanding the flush of pleasure 
that brightened her usually pale face, she exclaimed, “ And 
so, Miss, this is one of your plans to slip your neck out of the 
yoke of duty.” 

Jane said she had nothing to do with the plan ; but she 
trusted her aunt would not oblige her to lose such a golden 
opportunity of advantage. Mrs. Wilson made various objec- 
tions, and Jane skilfully obviated them all. At last she 
said, “ There would be a piece of linen to make up for David, 
and that put it quite out of the question, for,” said she, “ I 
shall not take the girls from their studies ; and even you, 
Miss Jane, will probably have the grace to think my time 
more precious than yours.” 

u Well, aunt,” said Jane, with a smile so sweet, that even 
Mrs. Wilson could not entirely resist its influence, u if I will 
get the linen made by witch or fairy, may I go ?” 

“ Why, yes,” replied her aunt ; “ as you cannot get it 
made without witches or fairies, I may safely say you may.” 

J ane’s reliance was on kindness more potent than magic ; 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


77 


and that very evening, with the light-hounding step of hope, 
she went to her friend Mary’s, where, after having made her 
acknowledgments to Mr. Lloyd with the grace of earnest- 
ness and sincerity, she revealed to Mary the only obstacle 
that now opposed her wishes. Mary at once, as Jane expect- 
ed, offered to make the linen for her ; and Jane, affection- 
ately thanking her, said, she was sure her aunt would be sat- 
isfied, for she had often heard her say, “ Mary Hull was the 
best needlewoman in the county.” 

Mrs. Wilson had seen Jane so uniformly flexible and sub- 
missive to her wilful administration, and in matters she 
deemed of vastly more consequence than six months’ school- 
ing, that she was all astonishment to behold her now so per- 
severing in her resolution to accomplish her purpose. But 
Jane’s and Mrs. Wilson’s estimate of the importance of any 
given object was very different. The same fortitude that en- 
abled Jane to bear, silently and patiently, the “oppressor’s 
wrong,” nerved her courage in the attainment of a good end. 

Mrs. Wilson had no longer any pretence to oppose Jane’s 
wishes ; and the following day she took her place, with her 
cousins, at Mr. Evertson’s school. Her education had been 
very much advanced for her years; so that, though four 
years younger than Martha Wilson, she was, after a very 
careful examination by the teacher, classed with her. This 
was a severe mortification to Martha’s pride ; she seemed to 
feel her cousin’s equality an insult to herself, and when she 
reported the circumstance to her mother, she said, she be- 
lieved it was all owing to J ane’s soft answers and pretty face ; 
or “ may be the quaker, who takes such a mighty fancy to 
Jane, has bribed Mr. Evertson.” 

“Very likely, very likely,” answered her mother. “It 
seems as if every body took that child’s part against us.” 


78 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


Jane, once more placed on even ground with her compan- 
ions, was like a spring relieved from a pressure. She entered 
on her new pursuits with a vigor that baffled the mean at- 
tempts of the family at home to impede or hinder her course. 
She was not a genius, but she had that eager assiduity, that 
■“ patient attention,” to which the greatest of philosophers at- 
tributed the success which has been the envy and admiration 
of the world. There was a perpetual sunshine in her face, 
that delighted her patron. He^had thought nothing could be 
more interesting than Jane’s pensive, dejected expression; 
but he now felt, that it was beautiful as well as natural for 
the young plant to expand its leaves to the bright rays of 
the sun, and to rejoice in its beams. Mary Hull was heard 
to say, quite as often as the beauty of the expression would 
justify, “ the Lord be thanked, Jane once more wears the 
cheerfulness of countenance that betokens a heart in pros- 
perity.” 

Double duties were laid on J ane at home, but she won 
her way through them. The strict rule of her aunt’s house 
did not allow her to “watch with the constellations,” but she 
u made acquaintance with the gray dawn,” and learnt by 
“ employing them well,” (the mode recommended by Eliza- 
beth Smith,) the value of minutes as well as hours. The bad 
envied her progress, the stupid were amazed at it, and the 
generous delighted with it. She went, rejoicing on her way, 
far before her cousins, who, stung by her manifest superiority, 
made unwonted exertions; and Martha might have fairly 
competed with her for the prizes that were to be given, had 
she not often been confused and obstructed by the perversi- 
ties of her temper. 

The winter and the spring winged their rapid flight. The 
end of the term, which was to close with an exhibition, ap- 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


79 


proached. The note of busy preparation was heard in every 
dwelling in the village of — . We doubt if the expecta- 

tion of the tournament at Ashby de la Zouche excited a 
greater sensation among knights-templars, Norman lords, and 
Saxon ‘ churls,* than the anticipation of the exhibition pro- 
duced upon the young people of . Labor and skill 

were employed and exhausted in preparations for the event. 
One day was allotted for the examination of the scholars, and 
the distribution of prizes for the exhibition , during which the 
young men and boys were to display those powers that were 
developing for the pulpit, and the bar, and the political 
harangue. The young ladies were with obvious and singular 
propriety excluded from any part in the exhibition, except 
that on the first drawing aside, (for they did not know enough 
of the scenic art to draw up the curtain,) the prize composi- 
tion was to be read by the writer of it. 

The old and the young seemed alike interested in promo- 
ting the glories of the day. The part of a king, from one of 
Miss Moore’s Sacred Dramas, was to be enacted, and there 
was a general assembly of the girls of the village to fit his 
royal trappings. A purple shawl was converted by a little 
girl of ready invention into a royal robe of Tyrian dye. The 
crown blazed with jewelry, which to too curious scrutiny ap- 
peared to be not diamonds, but paste ; not gold, but gold-leaf, 
and gold beads ; of which fashionable New England necklace, 
as tradition goes, there were not less than sixty strings, lent 
for the occasion by the kind old ladies of the village. An 
antiquated belle who had once flourished in the capital, com- 
pleted the decoration of the crown by four nodding ostrich 

plumes, whose 4 bend did certainly awe the world ’ of •• 

There might have been some want of congruity in the regalia. 


80 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


but this was not marked by the critics of , ag not one 

of the republican audience had ever seen a real crown. 

A meeting was called of the trustees of the school, and 
the meeting- house (for thus in the land of the Puritans the 
churches are still named,) was assigned as the place of exhi 
bition. In order not to invade the seriousness of the sanc- 
tuary, the pieces to be spoken were all to be of a moral or 
religious character. . Instrumental music, notwithstanding the 
celebrations of Independence in the same holy place were 
pleaded as a precedent, was rigorously forbidden. The 
arrangements were made according to these decrees, from 
which there was no appeal, and neither, as usually happens 
with inevitable evils, was there much dissatisfaction. One of 
the boys remarked, that he wondered the deacons (three of 
the trustees were deacons), did not stop the birds from sing- 
ing, and the sun from shining, and all such gay sounds and 
sights. Oh that those, who throw a pall over the innocent 
pleasures of life, and give, in the eye of the young, to religion 
a dark and gloomy aspect, would learn some lessons of the- 
ology from the joyous light of the sun, and the merry carol 
of the birds ! 

A floor was laid over the tops of the pews, which was 
covered by a carpet lent by the kind Mr. Lloyd. A chair, a 
present from Queen Anne to the first missionary to the Hou- 
satonic Indians, and which, like some other royal gifts, had 
cost more 'than it came to, in its journey from the coast to 
the mountainous interior, furnished a very respectable throne, 
less mutable than some that have been filled by real kings, 
for it remained a fixture in the middle of the stage, while 
kings were deposed and kingdoms overthrown. Curtains, of 
divers colors and figures, were drawn in a cunningly devised 
manner, from one end of the church to the other. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


81 


The day of examination came, and our deserving young 
heroine was crowned with honours, which she merited so well, 
and bore so meekly, that she had the sympathy of the whole 
school — except that (for the truth must be told) of her en- 
vious cousins. When the prizes for arithmetic, grammar, 
geography, history, and philosophy were, one after another, 
in obedience to the award of the examiners, delivered to 
Jane by her gratified master, Martha Wilson burst into tears 
of spite and mortification, and Elvira whispered to the young 
lady next her, “ She may have her triumph no.w, but I will 
have one worth a hundred prizes to-morrow, for I am sure 
that my composition will be preferred to hers.” 

To add the zest of curiosity and surprise to the exhibi- 
tion, it had been determined that the writer of the successful 
piece should not be known till the withdrawing of the curtain 
disclosed the- secret. The long expected day arrived. One 
would have thought, from the wagons and chaises that poured 
in from the neighbouring towns, that a cattle show, or a hang- 
ing, or some such u merry-making matter,” was going on in 

the village of . The church was filled at an early 

hour ; and pews, aisles, and galleries crowded as we have 
seen a less holy place at the first appearance of a foreign 
actor. The teacher and the clergyman were in the pulpit ; 
the scholars ranged on benches at the opposite extremities of 
the stage ; the crowd was hushed into reverent stillness while 
the clergyman commenced the exercises of the day by an ap- 
propriate prayer. The curtains were hardly closed, before 
they were again withdrawn, and the eager eyes of the assem- 
bly fell on Elvira. A shadow of disappointment might have 
been seen flitting across Mr. Lloyd’s face at this moment, 
while Mary Hull, who sat in a corner of the gallery, half 
rose from her seat, sat down again, tied and untied her bon- 
4 * 


82 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


net, and, in short, manifested indubitable signs of disappoint- 
ment and vexation ; signs, that in more charitable eyes than 
Mrs. Wilson’s certainly would have gone against the obnox- 
ious doctrine of “ perfection.” Elvira was seated on the 
throne, ambitiously arrayed in a bright scarlet Canton crape 
frock, and a white sarcenet scarf fantastically thrown over 
her shoulders. Her hair, in imitation of some favourite 
heroine, flowed in ringlets over her neck, excepting a single 
braid, with which, as she fancied, “ a la Grecque ,” she had 
encompassed her brow ; and, to add to this confusion of the 
classical and the pastoral orders, instead of the crescent of 
Diana in the model,- she had bound her braid with blue glass 
beads. 

“ Who is that ? who is that ?” was whispered from one to 
another. 

“ The rich widow Wilson’s daughter,” the strangers were 
answered. 

Mrs. Wilson, whose maternal pride was swollen by the 
consciousness of triumph over J ane, nodded and whispered to 
all within her hearing, My daughter, sir — my daughter, 
ma’am ; you see by the bill, the prize composition is to be 
spoken by the writer of it.” 

Elvira rose and advanced. She had requested that she 
might speak instead of reading her piece, and she spouted it 
with all the airs and graces of a self-elected heroine. When 
she dropped her courtesy, and returned to her companions, 
her usually high colour was heightened by the pride of suc- 
cess, and the pleasure of display. Some were heard to say, 
“ She is a beauty;” while others shook their heads, and ob- 
served, “ The young lady must have great talents to write 
such a piece, but she looked too bold to please them.” 

Before the busy hum of comment had died away, an old 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


83 


man, with a bald head, a keen eye, and a very good-humoured 
face, rose and said, “ he would make bold to speak a word ; 
bashfulness was suitable to youth, but was not necessary to 
gray hairs : he was kind o’ loath to spoil a young body’s 
pleasure, but he must own he did not like to see so much 
flourish in borrowed plumes ; that, if he read the notice right, 
the young woman was to, speak a piece of her own framing; 
he had no fault to find with the speaking ; she spoke as smart 
as a lawyer ; but he knew them words as well as the cate- 
chism, and if the schoolmaster or the minister would please 
to walk to his house, which was hard by, they might read 
them out of an old Boston newspaper, that his woman, who 
had been dead ten years come Independence, had pasted up 
by the side of his bed to keep off the rheumatis.” 

The old man sat down ; and Mr. Evertson, who had all 
along been a little suspicious of foul play, begged the patience 
of the audience, while he himself could make the necessary 
comparison. Mrs. Wilson, conscious of the possession of a 
file of old Boston papers, and well knowing the plagiary was 
but too probable, fidgeted from one side of the pew to the 
other ; and the conscience-stricken girl, on the pretence of 
being seized with a violent toothache, left the church. 

The teacher soon returned, and was very sorry to be 
obliged to say, that the result of the investigation had been 
unfavourable to the young lady’s integrity, as the piece had, 
undoubtedly, been copied, verbatim, from the original essay 
in the Boston paper. 

“ He hoped his school would suffer no discredit from the 
fault of an individual. He should now, though the young 
lady had remonstrated against being brought forward under 
such circumstances, insist on the composition being read 
which had been pronounced next best to Miss Wilson’s, and 


84 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


which, he could assure the audience, was, unquestionably, 
original.” 

The curtain was once more withdrawn, and discovered 
Jane seated on the throne, looking like the “ meek usurper,” 
reluctant to receive the greatness that was thrust upon her 
She presented a striking contrast to the deposed sovereign. 
She was dressed in a plain black silk frock, and a neatly 
plaited muslin Vandyke ; her rich light brown hair was parted 
on her forehead, and confined by a handsome . comb, around 
which one of her young friends had twisted an u od’rous 
chaplet of sweet summer buds.” She advanced with so em- 
barrassed an air, that even Mary Hull thought her triumph 
cost more than it was worth. As she unrolled the scroll she 
held in her hand, she ventured once to raise her eyes ; she 
saw but one face among all the multitude — the approving, 
encouraging smile of her kind patron met her timid glance, 
and emboldened her to proceed, which she did, in a low and 
faltering voice, that certainly lent no grace, but the grace of 
modesty, to the composition. The subject was gratitude, and 
the remarks, made on the virtue, were such as could only 
come from one whose heart was warmed by its glow. Mr. 
Lloyd felt the delicate praise. Mrs. Wilson affected to ap- 
propriate it to herself. She whispered to her next neighbour, 
“ It is easy to write about gratitude ; but I am sure her 
conduct is unthankful enough.” 

As Jane returned to her seat, her face brightened with 
the relief of having got through. Edward Erskine exclaimed 
to the young man next him, u By J”ove, it is the most elegant 
composition I ever heard from a girl. Jane Elton has cer- 
tainly grown very handsome.” 

“ Yes,” replied his friend ; “ I always thought her pretty, 
but you prefer her cousin.” 

“ I did prefer her cousin,” answered Erskine ; “ but I 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


85 


never noticed J ane much before ; she is but a child, and she 
has always looked so pale and so sad since the change in her 
family. You know I have no fancy for solemn looks. Elvira 
is certainly handsome — very handsome ; she is a cheating 
little devil ; but, for all that, she is gay, and spirited, and 
amusing. It is enough to make one give one’s self to little 
artifices and deceits to live with such a stern, churlish woman 
as Mrs. Wilson. The girl has infinite ingenuity in cheating 
her mother, and her pretty face covers a multitude of faults.” 

“ So I should think,” replied his friend, “ from the char- 
acter you have given her. You will hardly applaud the de- 
ceits that have led to the disgrace of this morning.” 

u Oh, no !” answered Erskine j “ but I am sorry for her 
mortification.” 

The exhibition proceeded ; but as our heroine had no fur- 
ther concern with it, neither have we ; except to say, that it 
was equally honourable to the preceptor and pupils. The 
paraphernalia of the king was exceedingly admired, and some 
were heard to observe (very justly), that they did not believe 
Solomon, -in all his glory, was arrayed like him ! 

Jane’s situation, at her aunt’s, was rendered more painful 
than ever, from the events of the school and the exhibition. 
Mrs, Wilson treated her with every species of vexatious un- 
kindness. In vain Jane tried, by her usefulness to her aunt^ 
to win her favour, and by the most patient obedience to her 
unreasonable commands, by silent uncomplaining submission, 
to soothe her into kindness. It was all in vain ; her aunt was 
more oppressive than ever, Martha more rude, and Elvira 
more tormenting. It was not hearing her called u the just,” 
that provoked their hatred ; but it was the keen and most 
disagreeable feeling of self-reproach that stung them, when 
the light of her goodness fell upon their evil deeds : it was 
the u daily beauty of her life that made them ugly.” 


86 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


CHAPTER VIL 


Poise the cause in justice’s equal scales, 

Whose beam stands sure. 

2 Henry VI. 


J ane hoped for some favourable change in her condition, or 
some slight alleviation of it, from the visit of David Wilson, 
who had just arrived from college, to pass a six-weeks’ vaca- 
tion with his family. At first, he seemed to admire his 
cousin ; and partly to gratify a passing fancy, and partly 
from opposition to his mother and sisters, he treated her with 
particular attention. Jane was grateful, and returned his 
kindness with frankness and affection. But she was soon 
obliged, by the freedom of his manners, to treat him with re- 
serve. His pride was wounded, and he joined the family 
league against her. He was a headstrong youth of eighteen ; 
his passions had been curbed by the authority of his mother, 
but never tamed ; and now that he was beyond her reach, he 
was continually falling into some excess ; almost always in 
disgrace at college, and never in favour. 

Mr. Lloyd was made acquainted with the embarrassments 
in Jane’s condition, by Mary Hull. He would have rejoiced 
to have offered Jane a home, but he had no right to interfere ; 
he was a stranger, and he well knew that Mrs. Wilson would 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


87 


not consent to any arrangement that would deprive her of 
Jane’s ill-requited services, — such services as money could 
not purchase. 

It was, too, about this period, that Mr. Lloyd went, for 
the first time, to visit Philadelphia. Jane had passed a day 
of unusual exertion, and just at the close of it she obtained 
her aunt’s reluctant leave to pay a visit to Mary Hull. It 
was a soft summer evening : the valley reposed in deep shad- 
ow ; the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, ting- 
ing the light clouds with a smiling farewell ray, and his last 
beams lingering on the summits of the eastern mountain, as 
if “ parting were sweet sorrow.” Jane’s spirits rose elastic, 
as she breathed the open air ; she felt like one who has just 
issued from a close, pent-up, sick room, and inspires the fresh 
pure breath of morning ; she was gayly tripping along, send- 
ing an involuntary response to the last notes of the birds 
that were loitering on “ bush and brake,” when Edward Ers- 
kine joined her ; she had often seen him at her aunt’s, but, 
regarding him as the companion of her cousins, she had 
scarcely noticed him, or had been noticed by him. He join- 
ed her, saying, “ It is almost too late to be abroad without a 
companion.” 

“ I amused,” replied Jane , i: to be without a companion, 
and I do not need one.” 

“ But, I hope you do not object to one? 'It would be one 
of the miseries of human life, to see such a girl as Jane 
Elton walking alone, and not be permitted to join her.” 

u Sir ?” said Jane, confounded by Edward’s unexpected 
gallantry. 

Abashed by her simplicity, he replied, “ that he was going 
to walk, and should be very happy to attend her.” 

Jane felt kindness, though she knew not how to receive 


88 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


gallantry. She thanked him, and they walked on together. 
When Edward parted from her, he wondered he had never 
noticed before how very interesting she was, u and what a 
sweet expression she has when she smiles ; and, oh !” added 
he, with a rapture quite excusable in a young man of twenty, 
“ her eye is in itself a soul.” 

a Jane,” said Mary Hull to her, as she entered her room, 
you look as bright as a May morning, and I have that to tell 
you, that will make you yet brighter. Mr. Evertson has been 
here, inquiring for Mr. Lloyd. I had my surmises, that it 
was something about you, and though Mr. Lloyd was gone, I 
was determined to find out ; and so I made bold to break 
the ice, and say something about the exhibition, and how 
much Mr. Lloyd was pleased with the school, &c., &c. — and 
then he said, he was quite disappointed to find Mr. Lloyd 
gone ; he wanted to consult him about a matter of great im- 
portance to himself and to you. Mr. Lloyd was so kind, he 
said, and had shown such an interest in the school, that he 
did not like to take any important step without consulting 
him; and then he spoke very handsomely of those elegant 
globes that Mr. Lloyd presented to the school. He said, 
his subscription was so much enlarged, that he must engage 
an assistant ; but, as he wished to purchase some maps, he 
must get one who could furnish, at least, one hundred dollars. 
His sick wife and large family, he said, consumed nearly all 
his profits; and last, and best of all, Jane, he said, that you 
was the person he should prefer of all others for an assist- 
ant.” 

“ Me !” exclaimed Jane. 

“ Yes, my dear child, you. I told him you was not quite 
fifteen ; but he said, you knew more than most young wo- 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


89 


men of twenty, and almost all the school loved and respected 
you.” 

“ But, Mary, Mary,” and the bright flush of pleasure died 
away as she spoke, “ where am I to get a hundred dollars ?” 

u Mr. Lloyd,” answered Mary, w I know would furnish 
it.” 

“No, Mary,” replied Jane, after a few moments’ consider- 
ation, 11 I never can consent to that.” 

“ But why ?” said Mary. “ Mr. Lloyd spends all his 
money in doing good.” 

Jane could not tell why, but she felt that it was not deli- 
cate to incur such an obligation. She merely said, “ Mr. 
Lloyd’s means are well employed. If any man does, he cer- 
tainly will, hear those blessed words, 1 1 was hungry and ye 
fed me, naked and ye clothed me, sick and in prison, and ye 
visited me.’ ” 

“ I do not eat the bread of idleness, Mary ; I think I 
earn all my aunt gives me ; and I am not very unhappy 
there ; indeed, I am seldom unhappy. I cannot tell how it 
it, but I am used to their ways. I am always busy, and have 
not time to dwell on their unkindness ; it passes me like the 
tempest from which I am sheltered and when I feel my 
temper rising, I remember who it is that has placed me in 
the fiery furnace, and I feel, Mary, strengthened and peace- 
ful as if an angel were really walking beside me.” 

“ Surely,” said Mary, as if but thinking aloud, “ The 
kingdom is come in this dear child’s heart.” 

Both were silent for a few moments. J ane was making a 
strong mental effort to subdue that longing after liberty, that 
lurks in every heart. Habitual discipline had rendered it 
comparatively easy for her to restrain her wishes. After a 
short struggle, she said, with a smile, “ I am sure of one thing, 


90 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


my dear, kind Mary, I shall never lose an opportunity of ad- 
vantage, while I have such a watchful friend as you are, on 
the look-out for me. Oh ! how much have I to be grateful 
for ! I had no reason to expect such favor from Mr. Evert- 
son. Every one, out of my aunt’s family, is kind to me ; I 
have no right to repine at the trials I have there ; they are, 
no doubt, necessary to me. Mary, I sometimes feel the ris- 
ing of a pride in my heart, that I am sure needs all these 
lessons of humility ; and sometimes I feel, that I might be 
easily tempted to do wrong — to indulge an indolent disposi- 
tion, for which you often reproved me ; but I am compelled 
to exertion, by necessity as well as a sense of duty. It is 
good for me to bear this, yoke in my youth.” 

u No doubt, no doubt, my dear child ; but then you know 
if there is a way of escape opened to you. it would be but a 
tempting of Providence not to avail yourself of it. It is right 
to endure necessary evils with patience, but I know no rule 
that forbids your getting rid of them, if you can.” Mary 
Hull was not a woman to leave any stone unturned, when she 
had a certain benefit in view for her favourite. u Now, dear 
Jane,” said she, 11 1 have one more plan to propose to you, 
and though it will cost you some pain, I think you will finally 
see it in the same light that I do. I always thought it was 
not for nothing Providence moved .the hearts of the creditors 
to spare you all your dear mother’s clothes, seeing she had a 
good many that could not be called necessary ; nor was it 
a blind chance that raised you up such a friend as Mr. Lloyd 
in a stranger. Now, if you will consent to it, I will under- 
take to dispose of the articles Mr. Lloyd sent to you, and 
your mother’s lace and shawls, and all the little nick-nacks 
she left ; it shall go hard but I will raise a hundred dollars.” 
u But, Mary,” said Jane, wishing, perhaps, to conceal from 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


91 


herself even the involuntary reluctance she felt to the propo- 
sal. " Aunt Wilson will never consent to it.” 

” The consent that is not asked,” replied Mary, “cannot 
he refused. It is hut speaking to Mr. Evertson, and he will 
keep our counsel, for he is not a talking body, and when all 
is ready, it will be time enough, not to ask Mrs. Wilson’s 
leave, but to tell her your plans ; you owe her nothing, my 
child, unless it be for keeping the furnace hot that purifies 
the gold. I would not make you discontented with your sit- 
uation, but I cannot bear to see your mind as well as your 
body in slavery.” 

Mary’s long harangue had given Jane a moment for reflec- 
tion, and she now saw the obvious benefits to result from the 
adoption of her judicious friend’s plan. The real sorrows 
that had shaded her short life, had taught her not to waste 
her sensibility on trifles. She doubtless felt it to be very 
painful to part with any memorials of her mother, but the 
moment she was convinced it was right and be£t she should 
do so, she consented, and cheerfully, to the arrangement. 
Mary entered immediately upon the execution of her plan. 

Those who have been accustomed to use, and to waste, 
thousands, will smile with contempt at the difficulty of rais- 
ing a hundred dollars. But let those persons be reduced to 
want so mean a sum, and they will cease to laugh at the 
obstacles in the way of getting it. Certain it is, that Mary, 
anxious and assiduous, spent four weeks in industrious appli- 
cation to those whom she thought most likely to be purcha- 
sers in the confined market of . The necessity of secrecy 

increased the difficulty of the transaction ; but finally, zeal 
and perseverance mastered every obstacle, and Mary, with 
sparkling eyes, and a face that smiled all over in spite of its ha- 
bitual sobriety, put Jane in possession of the hundred dollars. 


92 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


“ This is indeed manna in the wilderness,” said Jane, as she 
received it, u but, dear Mary, I am not the less thankful to 
you for your exertions for me.” 

u My child you are right,” replied Mary ; u thanks should 
first ascend to Heaven, and then they are very apt to descend 
in heavenly grace upon the feeble instrument. But some- 
thing seems to trouble you.” 

“ I am troubled,” answered Jane ; u I fear, Mary, this sum 
cannot all have come from the articles you sold ; you have 
added some of your earnings.” 

11 No, my dear child ; some, and all of my earnings, would 
I gladly give to you, but you know my poor blind sister takes 
all I can earn : while Cod blesses me with health, she shall 
never want. The town has offered to take her off my hands, 
as they call it, ‘but this would.be a crying shame to me ; and 
besides,” she added smiling, u I can’t spare her, for it is more 
pleasant working for her than for myself. Thanks to Mr. 
Lloyd, she is now placed in a better situation than I could 
afford for her. No, Jane, the money is all yours; I have 
told Mr. Evertson, and you are to enter the school on Mon- 
day, and I have engaged a place for you at Mrs. Harvey’s, 
who will be as kind as a mother to you. Between now and 
Monday you will have time to acquaint your aunt with the 
fortune you have come to, and to shed all the tears that are 
necessary on this woful occasion !” 

Jane had now nothing to do but to communicate these 
arrangements ; but so much did she dread the tempest she 
knew the intelligence would produce, that she suffered the day 
to wear away without opening her lips on the subject. The 
next day arrived ; the time of emancipation was so near, she 
felt her spirits rise equal to the disagreeable task. The fam- 
ily were assembled in the 1 dwelling room ;’ Mrs. Wilson was 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


93 


engaged in casting up with her son David some of his college 
accounts, a kind of business that never increased her good 
humour. Martha and .Elvira were seated fit a window, in a 
warm altercation about the piece of work on which they were 
sewing ; the point of controversy seemed to be — to which the 
mother had assigned the task of finishing it. The two 
younger children were sitting on little chairs near their mo- 
ther, learning a long lesson in the 1 Assembly’s Catechism,’ 
and every now and then crying out — “ Please to speak to 
David, ma’am, he is pinching me David pulled my hair, 
ma’am.” The complainants either received no notice, or an 
angry rebuke from the mother. Jane was quietly sewing, 
and mentally resolving that she would speak on the dreaded 
subject the moment her aunt had finished the business at 
which she was engaged. Mrs. Wilson’s temper became so 
much ruffled that she could not understand the accounts ; so 
shuffling the papers altogether into her desk, and turning the 
key, she said angrily to her son, 1 her eldest hope,’ “ You will 
please to bear in mind, sir, that all these extravagant bills 
are charged to you, and shall come out of your portion — not 
a cent of them will I ever pay.” 

This did not seem to be a very propitious moment for 
Jane’s communication, but she dreaded it so much, that she 
felt impatient to have it off her mind, and laying down her 
work, she was fearfully beginning, when she was interrupted 
by a gentle tap at the door. A mean-looking woman entered, 
who bore the marks of poverty, and sorrow, and sickness. 
She had a pale, half-starved infant in her arms, and two other 
little ragged children with her, that she had very consider- 
ately left at the outer door. She curtsied very humbly to 
the lady of the house — ‘ hoped no offence’ — she had a little 
business with Miss Wilson — she believed Miss Wilson had 


94 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


forgotten her, it was no wonder — she did not blame her, 
sickness and trouble made great changes. Mrs. Wilson either 
did not, or affected not to recognize her. She was aware 
that old acquaintance might create a claim upon her charity, 
and she did not seem well pleased when J ane, who sat near, 
pushed a chair forward for the poor woman, into which she 
sunk, as it appeared, from utter inability to stand. 

“Who do you say you are?” said Mrs. Wilson, after em- 
barrassing the woman by an unfeeling stare. 

“ I did not say, ma’am, for I thought, may be, when you 
looked at me so severe, you would know me.” 

“ Let me take your baby, while you rest a little,” said 
Jane. 

“ Oh miss, he is not fit for you to take, he has had a dread- 
ful spell with the whooping-cough and the measles, and they 
have left him kind-o’ sore and rickety ; he has not looked so 
chirk as he does to-day since we left Buffalo.” Jane persist- 
ed in her kind offer, and the woman turned again to Mrs. 
Wilson — •“ Can’t you call to mind, ma’am, Polly Harris, that 
lived five years at your brother Squire Elton’s ?” 

“Yes, yes, I recollect you now; but you married and 
went away ; and people should get their victuals where they 
do their work.” 

“ I did not come to beg,” replied the woman. 

“ That may be,” said Mrs. Wilson ; “ but it is a very poor 
calculation for the people that move into the new countries 
to come back upon us as soon as they meet with any trouble. 
I wonder our Select Men don’t take it in hand.” 

“ Ah ! ma’am !” said the woman, “ I guess you was never 
among strangers ; never knew what it was to long to see your 
own people. Oh it is a heart-sickness, that seems to wear 
away life !” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


95 


u Whether I was, or was not, I don’t know what that sig- 
nifies to you ; I should he glad to know what your business 
is with me, if you have any, which I very much doubt.” 

“ I am afraid, ma’am, you will not see fit to make it your 
business,” said the poor woman ; and she sighed deeply, and 
hesitated, as if she was discouraged from proceeding, but the 
piteous condition of her children stimulated her courage. 
u Well, ma’am, to begin with the beginning of my troubles, 
as I was saying, I lived five years with your brother.” 

“ Troubles !” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, “ you had an easy 
life enough of it there ; you was always as plump as a par- 
tridge, and your cheeks as red as a rose !” 

“ I had nothing to complain of but that I could never get 
my pay when I wanted it. There never was a nicer woman 
than Miss Elton. I believe she saved my life once when I 
had the typus fever ; but then every body knew she never had 
the use of much money ; she never seemed to care any thing 
about it — when she had any I could always get it ; I hope 
no offence, but every body knows the Squire was always a 
scheming, and seldom had the money ready to pay his just debts. 
I am afraid the child tires you, miss she continued, turning 
to Jane, who had walked to the window to hide the emotion 
the woman’s remarks produced. 

u No,” replied Jane, u I had rather keep it and the 
woman proceeded — 

“ It lacked but six weeks of the five years I had lived 
at the Squire’s, when I was married to Rufus Winthrop. 
When Rufus came to a settlement with the Squire, there was 
a hundred dollars owing to me. W e were expecting to move 
off at a great distance, beyond the Genesee, and Rufus 
pressed very hard for the payment : the Squire put him off 
from time to time : Rufus was a peaceable man, and did not 


96 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


want to go to law ; and so the upshot of it was, the Squire 
persuaded him to to-take his note— 

u That’s a very likely story,” said Mrs. Wilson, impatient- 
ly interrupting the narrative — •“ I don’t believe one word of 
it.” 

“ Well, ma’am,!’ replied Mrs, Winthrop, “ I have that 
which must convince you and she took from an old pocket 
book a small piece of paper, and handed it to Mrs. Wilson — 
u there is the identical note, ma’am, you can satisfy your- 
self.” 

Jane cast her eye on the slip of paper in her aunt’s hand ; 
it was but too plainly written in her father’s large and singu- 
lar character. Mrs. Wilson coldly returned it, saying, in a 
moderate tone, “ It is as good to you now as a piece of white 
paper.” 

“ Then I have nothing in this world,” said the poor wo- 
man, bursting into tears, “ but my poor sick, destitute chil- 
dren.” 

u How came you in such a destitute condition?” inquired 
Mrs. Wilson, who, now that she saw the woman had no direct 
claim on her, was willing to hear her story. 

“ Oh.,” answered the poor creature, “ it seemed as if every 
thing went cross-grained with us. There was never a couple 
went into the new countries with fairer prospects ; Rufus had 
tugged every way to save enough to buy him a small farm. 
When we got to Buffalo, we struck down south, and settled 
just on the edge of Lake Erie. We had a yoke of oxen, but 
one of them was pretty much beat out on the road, and died 
the very day after we got to our journey’s end : there was a 
distemper among the cattle the next winter, and we lost the 
other ox and our cow. In the spring, Rufus took the long 
ague, working out in the swampy ground in wet weather, and 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


91 

that held him fifteen months ; hut he had made some clear- 
ings, and we worried through ; and for three years we seemed 
to he getting along ahead a little. Then we both took the 
lake fever : we had neither doctor nor nurse : our nighest 
neighbors were two miles off; they were more forehanded 
than we, and despert kind, hut it was not much they could 
do, for they had a large sick family of their own. The fever 
threw my poor husband into a slow consumption, and he died, 
ma’am, the 20th of last J anuary, and that poor baby was born 
the next week after he died. It seemed as if nothing could 
kill me, though I have a weakness in my bones ’casioned by 
the fever, and distress of mind, that I expect to carry to my 
grave with me. Sometimes my children and I would almost 
starve to death ; but Providence always sent some relief. 
Once there was a missionary put up with us ; he looked like 
a poor body, but he left me two dollars ; and once a Roman 
Catholic priest that was passing, over into Canada, gave me 
a gold piece, and that I saved, till I started on my journey. 
While my husband was sick, he had great consarn upon his 
mind about Squire Elton’s note ; we had heard rumours like 
that he had broke ; but Rufus nor I could not believe but 
what there would be enough to pay the note, out of all his 
grandeur, and so Rufus left it in strict charge with me to 
come back as soon as I could after the spring opened. And 
so, ma’am, as soon as the roads were a little settled, I pulled 
up stakes and came off. My good Christian neighbours helped 
me up to Buffalo. I have been nine weeks getting from 
there, though I was favoured with a great many rides” — 
Here Mrs. Wilson interrupted the unfortunate narrator, 
saying, — •“ I cannot see what occasion there was for you to be 
nine weeks on the road ; I have known persons to go from 
Boston to the Falls, and back again, in three weeks.” 

5 


98 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


“ Ah, ma’am !” replied the woman, “ there is a sight of 
difference between a gentleman riding through the country 
for pleasure, with plenty of money in his pocket, and a poor 
sickly creature, begging a ride now and then of a few miles, 
and then walking for miles with four little children, and one 
a baby.” 

“ Four ! your story grows — I thought you had but 
three.” 

“ I have but three, ma’am ; I buru. my only girl, the 
twin to the second boy, at Batavy. She never was hearty, 
and the travelling quite overdid her.” The afflicted woman 
wiped away the fast gathering tears with a corner of her 
apron, and went on. “ At Batavy I believe I should have 
gived out, but there was a tender-hearted gentleman from the 
eastward, going on to see the Falls, and he paid for my pas- 
sage, and all my children’s, in a return-stage, quite to Genevy. 
This was a great relief to my spirits, and easement to the 
children’s feet ; and so after that, we came on pretty well, 
and met with a great deal of kindness ; but, oh ! ma’am, ’tis 
a wearisome journey.” 

“And here you are,” said Mrs. Wilson; “and I suppose 
the town must take care of you.” 

“ I did not mean to be a burden to the town,” replied the 
woman. “ If it pleased the Lord to restore my health, and if 
I could have got the hundred dollars, I would not have been 
a burden to any body. I calculated to hire me a little place, 
bought a loom, and turned my hand to weaving — I am a mas- 
ter weaver, ma’am.” 

“ I am sorry for you, good woman,” said Mrs. Wilson. 
“ Here,” said she, after rummaging her pocket and taking out 
a reluctant nine-pence ; “ Here is a ‘ widow’s mite’ for you. 
I can’t give you the least encouragement about my brother’s 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


99 


debt. He left nothing but a destitute child that I have had 
to support ever since his death.” 

u Is that little J ane ?” exclaimed the woman, for the first 
time recalling to mind the features of our heroine. “ Well,” 
added she, surveying her delicate person with a mingled ex- 
pression of archness and sim x licity, “ I think it can’t have 
cost you much to support her, ma’am. I wonder I did not 
know you,” she continued, “ when you took my baby so 
kindly. It was just like you. I used to set a great store by 
you. But you have grown so tall, and so handsome ; as to 
the matter of that, you was always just like a Lon’en doll.” 

Jane replaced the child in the mother’s lap, and said to 
Mrs. Winthrop, “ I recollect you perfectly, Polly. You were 
very good to me.” 

I could not help it, for you was always as pleasant as a 
little lamb, and as chipper as a bird ; but,” said she, observ- 
ing the too evident traces of tears on Jane’s cheeks, “ I am 
sorry if I have touched your feelings about the money. I 
never mistrusted that it was you.” 

“ Do not be uneasy on that account,” replied J ane. u I 
am glad I have heard your story, Polly.” 

She had listened to the unfortunate woman’s history 
with the keenest anguish. There is no feeling so near of kin 
to remorse as that which a virtuous child suffers frrom the 
knowledge of a parent’s vices. The injustice of her father 
appeared to Jane to have either caused or aggravated every 
evil the poor woman had suffered. Each particular was 
sharper than a serpent’s tooth to our unhappy orphan. She 
had not that convenient moral sense, quick to discern and 
lament the faults of others, but very dull in the perception of 
our own duties. It was the work of an instant with her to 
resolve to appropriate her newly acquired treasure to the re* 


100 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


paration of her father’s injustice ; and with the hasty gene- 
rosity of youth, she left the room to execute her purpose. 
But, when she took the pocket-book from its hiding-place, and 
saw again that which she had looked upon with so much joy, 
as the price of liberty and the means of independence, her 
heart misgave her ; she felt like a prisoner, the doors of 
whose prison-house have been thrown open to him, who sees 
the inviting world without, and who is called upon, in the 
spirit of martyrdom, to close the door, and bar himself from 
light and hope. Those who have felt the difficulty of sacri- 
ficing natural and virtuous wishes to strict justice, will par- 
don our heroine a few moments’ deliberation. She thought 
that, as the money had been chiefly the avails of the articles 
given her by Mr. Lloyd, it could not be considered as derived 
from her father. She thought how much Mary Hull had ex- 
erted herself, and how disappointed she would be ; the en- 
gagement with Mr. Evertson occurred to her, and she was 
not certain it would be quite right to break it ; and, last of 
all, she thought, that if her present plans succeeded, it could 
not be very long before she might earn enough to cancel the 
debt. Jane had not been used to parleying with her duties, 
or stifling the voice of conscience ; and in a moment the re- 
collection of her father’s dishonesty, and the poor woman’s 
perishing condition, swept away every selfish consideration. 
“ Oh, Lord !” she exclaimed, “ if I have not compassion on 
my fellow-servant, how can I hope for thy pity.” 

We would recommend to all persons, placed in similar 
circumstances, to all who find almost as many arguments for 
the wrong as for the right, to bring to their aid the certain 
light of Scripture, and we think they will be altogether -per- 
suaded to be like our heroine, not “ saving her bonds.” Sure 
we are, that she was never more to be envied than when, at the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE, 


101 


Bound of the closing of the parlour door, she flew down stairs, 
joined Mrs. Winthrop just as she was saying, half sobbing, to 
her children, “ Come, hoys — I am poor now, for my hope is 
all gone ;” and walking a little distance, till a sharp angle in 
the road concealed them from the house, she said, “ Polly, 
here is a hundred dollars. I know the debt my father owed 
you amounts to .a good deal more now, hut this is all I have, — 
take it. It is not probable that I shall ever he able to pay 
the rest, hut I shall never forget that I owe it.” 

Mrs. Winthrop was for a moment dumb with surprise ; 
then bursting into tears of gratitude and joy, she would have 
overwhelmed Jane with thanks, but she stopped her, saying, 
“ No, Polly, I have only done what was right. I have two 
favours to beg of you — say nothing to any body in the world, 
of your having received this money from me ; and,” added 
she, faltering, “ do not, again, tell the story of the ” in- 

justice, she would have said, but the word choked her. u I 
mean, do not say, to any one, that my parents did not pay 
you.”' 

“ Oh ! Miss Jane,” replied the grateful creature, “ I’ll 
mind every thing you tell me, just as much as if it was spoken 
to me right out of Heaven*” 

And we have reasons to believe, she was quite as faithful 
to her promise as could have been expected ; for she was 
never known to make any communication on the subject, ex- 
cept that, when some of her rustic neighbours expressed their 
surprise at the sudden and inexplicable change in her cir- 
cumstances, she would say, “ She came by it honestly, and 
by the honesty of some people too, who she guessed, though 
they did it secretly, would be rewarded openly.” And when 
she heard Jane Elton’s name mentioned, she would roll up 
her eyes and say, “ That if every body knew as much as she 


102 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


did, they would think that girl was an angel upon earth.” 
These oracular hints were, perhaps, not quite so much heeded 
as Polly expected ; at any rate, she was never tempted to 
disclose the grounds of her opinion. 

Jane had a difficult task in reconciling her friend Mary 
to her disappointment. While she felt a secret delight in 
the tried rectitude of her favourite, she could not deny herself 
the indulgence of a little repining. — “ If you had hut waited, 
Jane, till Mr. Lloyd came home, he would have advanced the 
money with all his heart.” 

“ Yes, hut Mary, you must recollect Mr. Lloyd is not to 
return these six weeks ; and, in the mean time, what was to 
become of the poor woman and her starving children ? No, 
Mary, we must deal justly while we have it in our power. Is 
it not your great Mr. Wesley who says, ‘{ft is safe to defer 
our pleasures, hut never to delay our duties V ” 

“It seems to me, Jane,” replied Mary, “you pick fruit 
from every good tree, no matter whose vineyard it grows in. 
Well, I believe you have done right; hut I shall tell the 
story to Mr. Evertson and Mrs. Harvey with a heavy heart.” 

“ Tell them nothing,” said Jane, “ hut that I had an 
unexpected call for the money, ^nd beg them to mention 
nothing of the past, for I will not unnecessarily provoke 
aunt Wilson.” 

“ J ane,” said Mary earnestly, “ you must not deny me the 
satisfaction of telling how you have laid out the money.” 

“ No,” replied Jane, “you cannot have that pleasure with- 
out telling why I was obliged thus to lay it out. — Oh,” added 
she with more emotion than she had yet shown, “ I have 
never blamed my father that he left me penniless ; had he 
left me the inheritance of a good name, I would not have 
exchanged it for all the world can give !” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


103 


Mary consoled her friend as well as she was able, and then 
reluctantly parted from her, to perform her disagreeable duty. 
Mr. Evertson was exceedingly disappointed ; he said he had 
an offer of a very good assistant, who could furnish more 
money than he expected from Jane ; he had preferred Jane 
Elton, for no sum could outweigh her qualifications for the 
station he wished her to fill. He was, however, obliged to 
her for so promptly informing him of her determination, 
as he had not yet sent a refusal to the person who had solici- 
ted the place. 

Mrs. Harvey, not content with deploring, which she did 
sincerely, that she could not have Jane for an inmate, won- 
dered what upon earth she could have done with a hundred 
dollars ! and concluded u that it would be just like Jane El- 
ton, though it would not be like any body else in the world, 
to pay one of her father’s old debts with it.” Will not our 
readers pardon Mary, if Mrs. Harvey inferred from the smile 
of pleasure that brightened her face, that she had sagaciously 
guessed the truth ? Let that be as it may ; all parties prom- 
ised, and what is much more extraordinary, preserved secrecy ; 
and all that was left of Jane’s hopes and plans was the con- 
sciousness of having acted right — from right motives. Could 
any one have seen the peacefulness of her heart, he would 
have pronounced that consciousness a treasure that has no 
equivalent. 

Thus our horoine, placed in circumstances which would 
have made some desperate, and most discontented ; by 
1 keeping her heart with all diligence.’ proved that 1 out of it 
are the issues of life she was first resigned, and then happy. 
She was on an eminence of virtue, to which the conflicts and 
irritations of her aunt’s family did not reach. 


104 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


It may be said of him, that Cupid hath clap’d him o’ the shoulder, but 
I warrant him heart-whole. 


As YOU LIKE IT. 


More than two years glided away without the occurrence of 
any incident in the life of our heroine that would he deemed 
worthy of record, by any persons less interested in her history 
than Mary Hull, or the writer of her simple annals. The 
reader shall therefore be allowed to pass oyer this interval, 
with merely a remark, that Jane had improved in mortal and 
immortal graces ; that the development of her character 
seemed to interest and delight Mr. Lloyd almost as much as 
the progress of his own child, and that her uniform patience 
had acquired for her some influence over the bad passions of 
her aunt, whose rough points seemed to be a little worn by 
the continual dropping of Jane’s virtues. 

In this interval, Martha Wilson had made a stolen match 
with a tavern-keeper from a neighbouring village, and had re- 
moved from her mother’s house, to display her character on a 
new stage, and in a worse light. 

Elvira, at eighteen, was much the same as at sixteen, ex- 
cept, that the gayety of her spirits was somewhat checked by 
the apprehension (that seemed to have grown of late) that 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


105 


Edward Erskine’s affections, which had been vacillating for 
some time between her and her cousin, would finally prepon- 
derate in Jane’s favour. It may appear singular, that the 
same person should admire both the cousins ; but it must be 
remembered, that Edward Erskine was not (as our readers 
are) admitted behind the scenes ; and it must be confessed, 
that he had not so nice a moral sense, as we hope they pos- 
sess. He neither estimated the purity of Jane’s character, 
as it deserved to be estimated, nor felt for the faults of El- 
vira the dislike they merited. Edward Erskine belonged to 

one of the best families in the county of . His parents 

had lost several children in their infancy, and this boy alone 
remained to them — to become the sole object of their cares 
and fondness. He was naturally what is called c good-heart- 
ed;’ which we believe means thoughtlessly kind and unscrupu- 
lously generous. Flattery, and unlimited indulgence made 
him vain, selfish, and indolent. These qualities were, however, 
somewhat modified by a frank and easy temper, and sheltered 
by an uncommonly handsome exterior. Some of his college 
companions thought him a genius, for, though he was seldom 
caught in the act of studying, he passed through college 
without disgrace ; this (for he certainly was neither a genius 
nor a necromancer) might be attributed in part to an apt- 
ness at learning, and an excellent memory ; but chiefly to an 
extraordinary facility at appropriating to himself the results 
of the labours of others. He lounged through the prescribed 
course of law studies, and entered upon his professional 
career with considerable iclat. He had a rich and powerful 
voice ; and it might be said of him, as of the chosen king of 
Israel — that ‘ from the shoulders upwards, he was taller and 
fairer than any of his brethren.’ These are qualifications 
never slighted by the vulgar ; and which are said to be pass- 
5 * 


106 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE, 


ports to ladies’ favour. He had too, for we would do him 
ample justice, uncommon talents, but not such as we think 
would justify the remark often made of him, u that the young 
squire was the smartest man in the country.” In short, he 
belonged to that large class of persons who are generous, but 
not just; affectionate, but not constant; and often kind, 
though it would puzzle a casuist to assign to their motives 
their just proportions of vanity and benevolence. He had 
recently, by the death of his parents, come into the possession 
of a handsome estate ; and he was accounted the first match 
in the county of . 

Mrs. Wilson could not be insensible to the advantages 
that she believed might be grasped by Elvira, and she deter- 
mined to relax the strict rule of her house, and to join her 
assiduities to her daughter’s arts, in order to secure the prize. 
She was almost as much embarrassed in her manoeuvres as 
the famous transporter of the fox, the geese, and the corn. 
If she opened her doors to young Erskine, to display her 
daughter,- Jane must be seen too; and though she was suffi- 
ciently ingenious in contriving ways and means of employing 
Jane, and securing a clear field for Elvira, Erskine, with the 
impatience and perversity of a spoiled child, set a double 
value on the pleasure that was denied him* 

The affairs of Mrs. Wilson’s household were in this train, 
when the following conversation occurred between the cou- 
sins : — 

“ If there is a party made to-morrow, to escort the bride, 
do you expect to join it, Jane?” said Elvira to her cousin, 
with an expression of anxiety that was quite as intelligible as 
her question. 

“I should like to do so,” replied Jane. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


107 


u Ah, that of course,” answered Elvira ; u hut I did not 
ask what you would like, but what you expect .” 

“ You know, Elvira, I am not sure of obtaining your 
mother’s permission.” 

“ For once in your life, Jane, do be content to speak less 
like an oracle, and tell me in plain English, whether you ex- 
pect to go, if you can obtain mother’s permission.” 

“ In plain English, then, Elvira, yes” replied Jane, smil- 
ing. 

“ You seem very sure of an invitation,” answered Elvira, 
pettishly. Jane’s deep blush revealed the truth to her sus- 
picious cousin, which she did not wish to confess or evade ; 
and Elvira continued, “ I was sure I overheard Edward say 
something to you about the ride last night, when you parted 
on the steps.” She paused, and then added, her eyes flashing 
fire, “Jane, Edward Erskine preferred me once, and in spite 
of your arts, he shall prefer me again. Remember, miss, the 
fate of lady Euphrasia.” 

Jane replied, good naturedly, “ I do remember her ; but 
if her proud and artful character suits me, the poverty and 
helplessness of my condition bears a striking resemblance to 
the forlorn Amanda’s. I trust, however, that my fate will re- 
semble neither of your heroines, for you cannot expect me, 
on account of the honour of being your rival, to be dashed 
from a precipice, to point the moral of your story ; and I am 
very certain of not marrying a lord.” 

11 Yes, for there is no lord in this vulgar country to 
marry ; but, with all your affectation of modesty, you aspire 
to the highest station within your reach.” 

Jane made no reply, and Elvira poured out her spleen in 
invectives, which neither abated her own ill humour, nor dis- 
turbed her cousin’s equanimity. She was determined to 


108 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


compass her purposes, and in order to do so, she imparted her 
conjectures to her mother, who had become as faithful, as she 
was a powerful auxiliary. 

In the evening they were all assembled in the parlour. 
Edward Erskine entered, and his entrance produced a visible 
sensation in every member of the little circle. Mrs. Wilson 
dropped half a needleful of stitches on her knitting work, 
and gave it to Jane to take them up. Jane seemed to find 
the task very difficult ; for a little girl, who sat by the work- 
ing stand, observed, “ Miss Jane, I could take up the stitches 
better than you do ; you miss them half.” 

“ Give me my spectacles — I’ll do it myself,” said Mrs. 
Wilson. “ Some people are very easily discomposed.” 

It was a warm evening in the latter part of September ; 
the window was open ; Jane retreated to it, and busied her- 
self in pulling the leaves off a rose-bush. Erskine brought 
matters to a crisis by saying, “ I called, Mrs. Wilson, to ask 
of you the favour of Miss Elton’s company to-morrow on the 
bridal escort.” 

“ I am sorry,” replied Mrs. Wilson, w that any young 
woman’s manners, who is brought up in my house, should au- 
thorize a gentleman to believe she will, of course, ride with 
him if asked.” 

“ I beg your pardon, madam,” replied Edward (for he, at 
least, had no fear of the redoubtable Mrs. Wilson), “ I have 
been so happy as to obtain Miss Elton’s consent, subject to 
yours.” 

“ Is it possible !” answered Mrs. Wilson, sneeringly — 
“ quite an unlooked-for deference from Miss Elton ; not un- 
necessary, however, for she probably recollected, that to-mor- 
row is lecture day ; and, indifferent as she is to the privilege 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


109 


of going to meeting, she knows that no pleasures ever prevent 
my going.” 

“ No, madam,” replied Erskine, “ the pleasures of others 
weigh very light against your duties.” 

Before Mrs. Wilson had made up her mind whether oi 
not to resent the sarcasm, Erskine rose, and joining Jane at 
the window, whispered to her, “ Rouse your spirit, for heaven’s 
sake ; do not submit to such mean tyranny.” 

J ane had recovered her self-possession, and she replied, 
smiling, “ It is my duty to subdue, not rouse my spirit.” 

“ Duty /” exclaimed Erskine ; “ leave all that ridiculous 
cant for your aunt : I abhor it. I have your promise, and 
your promise to me is surely as binding as your duty to your 
aunt.” 

“ That promise was conditional,” replied Jane, and it is 
no longer in my power to perform it.” 

“ Nor in your inclination, Miss Elton ?” 

Jane was not well pleased that Erskine should persevere, 
at the risk of involving her with her aunt ; and to avoid his 
importunity, and her aunt’s displeasure, she left the room. 
lL The girl wants spirit,” said Erskine, mentally ; “ she is 
tame, very tame. It is quite absurd for a girl of seventeen 
to talk about duties.” 

He was about to take leave, when Mrs. Wilson, who knew 
none of the skilful tactics of accomplished manoeuverers, 
though her clumsy assaults were often as irresistible, said, 
u Don’t be in such haste, Mr. Erskine. Elvira may go with 
you.” 

Edward’s first impulse was to decline the offer ; but he 
paused. Elvira was sitting by her mother, and she turned 
upon him a look of appeal and admiration ; his vanity, which 
had been piqued by J ane, was soothed by this tribute, and 


110 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


he said, “ If Miss Wilson is inclined to the party, I will call 
for her to-morrow.” 

Miss Wilson confessed her inclination with a glow cf 
pleasure that consoled him for his disappointment. 

Elvira made the most of the advantage she had gained. 
Mrs. Wilson had of late, though the effort cost her many a 
groan, indulged Elvira’s passion for dress, in the hope that 
the glittering of the bait would attract the prey. In this 
calculation she was not mistaken ; for, though Erskine affect- 
ed a contempt for the distinctions of dress, he had been too 
much flattered for his personal charms, to permit him to be 
insensible to them ; and when he handed Elvira into his gig, 
he noticed, with pleasure, that she was the best dressed and 
most stylish looking girl in the party. His vanity was still 
farther gratified, when he overheard his servant say to one of 
his fellows, “ By George, they are a most noble looking pair !” 
Such is the cormorant appetite of vanity, never satisfied with 
the quantity, and never nice as to the quality of the food it 
devours. 

Elvira had penetration enough to detect the weakest points 
in the fortress she had to assail ; and so skilfully and success- 
fully did she ply her arts on this triumphant day, that Ers- 
kine scarcely thought of Jane, and we fear not once with 
regret. . • 

Poor Jane remained at home, mortified that Edward went 
without her, and vexed with herself that she was mortified. 
To avoid seeing the party on their return, she went out to 
walk, and was deliberating whither to direct her steps, when 
she met her friend Mr. Lloyd. “ Ah, J ane said he, “ I just 
came on an errand from my saucy little girl; she has suc- 
ceeded for the first time to-day in hitching words together, so 
as to make quite an intelligible sentence ; and she is so much 


▲ NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


Ill 


elated, that she has bid me tell thee she cannot go to sleep 
till { dear J ane ’ has heard her read.” 

Jane replied, she “ should be glad to hear her but with 
none of the animation with which she usually entered into 
the pleasures of her little friend. Mr. Lloyd was disappoint- 
ed ; but he thought she had been suffering some domestic 
vexation, and they walked on silently. 

After a few moments he said, “ Quaker as I am, I do not 
like a silent meeting ; — though I should be used to it, for, 
except that I must answer the questions of my Rebecca, and 
am expected by thy friend Mary to reply to her praises of 
thee, I have not much more occasion for the gift of speech 
than the brothers of La Trappe.” 

“ You forget,” replied Jane, who felt her silence gently 
reproached, “ that besides all the use you have for that pre- 
cious faculty, in persuading the stupid and the obstinate to 
adopt your benevolent plans of reform, you sometimes con- 
descend to employ it in behalf of a very humble young 
friend.” 

“ But that young friend must lay aside her humility so 
far as to flatter me with the appearance of listening.” 

Jane was a little disconcerted, and Mr. Lloyd did not 
seem quite free from embarrassment ; but as he had roused 
her from her abstractedness, he began to expatiate on the 
approach of evening, the charms of that hour when the din of 
toil has ceased, and no sound is heard but the sweet sounds 
of twilight breathing the music of nature’s evening hymn ; 
he turned his eye to the heavens, which, in their “ far blue 
arch,” disclosed star after star, and then the constellations in 
their brightness. He spoke of the power that formed, and 
the wisdom that directed them. Jane was affected by his 
devotion ; it was a Promethean touch, that infused a soul 


112 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


into all nature. She listened with delight, and before they 
reached the house, her tranquillity was quite restored ; and 
the child and father were both entirely satisfied with the 
pleasure she manifested in the improvement of her little fa- 
vourite. But her trials were not over : after the lesson was 
• . 

past— ^ Dear Jane,” said Rebecca, u why did not thee go with 
the party to-day ? I saw them all go past here, and Mr. 
Erskine and Elvira were laughing, and I looked out sharp 
for thee ; would not any body take thee, Jane ?” 

Jane did what of all other things she would least have 
wished to have done — she burst into tears. 

The sweet child, whose directness had taken her by sur- 
prise, crept up into her lap, and putting her arms around her 
neck, said affectionately, “ I am sorry for thee, dear Jane ; 
don’t cry, father would have asked thee, if he had gone.” 
Poor Jane hid her blushes and her tears on the bosom of her 
kind, but unskilful comforter. She felt the necessity of say- 
ing something ; but confessions she could not make, and pre- 
tences she never made. 

Mr. Lloyd saw and pitied her confusion: he rose, and 
tenderly placing his hand on her head, he said, “ My dear 
young friend, thou hast wisely and safely guided thy little 
bark thus far down the stream of life ; be still vigilant and 
prudent, and thou wilt glide unharmed through the dangers 
that alarm thee.” He then relieved Jane from his presence, 
saying, u I am going to my library, and will send Mary to 
escort thee home.” 

Jane could not have borne a plainer statement of her 
case ; and though it was very clear that Mr. Lloyd had de- 
tected the lurking weakness of her heart, yet she was soothed 
by his figurative mode of insinuating his knowledge and his 
counsel. Persons of genuine sensibility possess a certain 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


113 


tact, that enables them to touch delicate subjects without 
giving pain. This touch differs as much from a rude and 
unfeeling grasp as does the management of a fine instrument 
in the hands of a skilful surgeon, from the mangling and 
hacking of a vulgar operator. 

Mr. Lloyd had heard the village gossip of Edward Ers- 
kine’s divided attentions to the cousins. Nothing that con- 
cerned Jane was uninteresting to him ; and he had watched 
with eager anxiety the character and conduct of Erskine. 
He had never liked the young man ; but he thought that he 
had probably done him injustice, and he had too fair a mind 
to harbour a prejudice. 11 Perhaps,” he said to himself, “ I 
have judged him hardly ; I am apt to carry my strait-coat 
habits into every thing ; the young man’s extravagant way of 
talking, his sacrifices to popularity, and his indolence and 
love of pleasure, may all have been exaggerated in my eyes 
by their opposition to the strict, sober ways in which I have 
been bred ; at any rate, I will look upon the bright side. 

J ane Elton, pure, excellent as she is, cannot love such a man 
as Edward Erskine appears to me to be ; and she is too 
noble, I am sure, to regard the advantages which excite the 
cupidity of her vulgar aunt.” 

The result of Mr. Lloyd’s investigations was not favour- 
able to Erskine. Still his faults were so specious, that they _ 
were often mistaken for virtues ; and virtues he had, though 
none unsullied. There was nothing in his character or his- 
tory, as far as Mr. Lloyd could ascertain it, that would give 
him a right to interfere with his advice to J ane ; but still 
he felt as if she was on the brink of a precipice, and he had 
no right to warn her of her danger. Perhaps this was a 
false delicacy, considering the amount of the risk ; but there 
are few persons of principle and refinement who do not shrink 


114 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


from meddling with affairs of the heart. Mr. Lloyd hoped — 
believed that Jane would not marry Edward Erskine ; but 
lie did not allow enough for the inexperience of youth* for 
the liability of a young lady of seventeen to fall in love ; for 
the faith that hopes all things, and believes all things — it 
wishes to believe. 

The fall, the winter, and the spring wore away, and, as 
yet, no certain indication appeared of the issue of this, to our 
villagers, momentous affair. Edward certainly preferred 
Jane, and yet he was more at his ease with Elvira. He could 
not but perceive the decided, superiority of J ane ; but Elvira 
made him always think more and better of himself ; and this 
most agreeable effect of her flatteries and servility reflected 
a charm on her. Jane was never less satisfied with herself 
than during this harassing period of her life. A new set of 
feelings were springing up in her heart, over which she felt 
that she had little control. At times, her confidence in Ed- 
ward was strong ; and then, suddenly, a hasty expression, or 
an unpremeditated action, revealed a trait that deformed the 
fair proportions of the hero of her imagination. ElviiVs con- 
tinual projects, and busy rivalry, provoked, at last, a spirit of 
competition ; which was certainly natural, though wrong ; but, 
alas ! our heroine had infirmities Who is without them 1 

In the beginning of the month of June, David Wilson 
came from college, involved in debt and in disgrace. His 
youthful follies had ripened into vices, and his mother had 
no patience, no forbearance for the faults, which she might 
have traced to her own mismanagement, but from which she 
found a source that relieved her from responsibility. The 
following was the close of an altercation, noisy and bitter, be- 
tween this mother and son : — “ I am ruined, utterly ruined, if 
you refuse me the money. Elvira told me you received a 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


115 


large sum yesterday ; and ’tis but one hundred dollars that 
I ask for.” 

“ And I wonder you can have the heart to ask,” replied 
Mrs. Wilson, sobbing with passion, not grief ; u you have no 
feeling; you never had any for my afflictions. It is but two 
months, yesterday, since Martha died, and I have no reason 
to hope for her she died without repentance.” 

“ Ha !” replied David, “ Elvira told me, that she confess- 
ed, to her husband, her abuse of his children, her love of the 
bottle, (which, by the by, every body knew before,) and a 
parcel of stuff that, for our sakes, I think she might have kept 
to herself.” 

11 Yes, yes, she did die in a terrible uproar of mind about 
some things of that kind ; but she had no feeling of her lost 
state by nature.” 

11 Oh, the devil !” grumbled the hopeful son and brother ; 
“ if I had nothing to worry my conscience but my state by 
nature , I might get one good night’s sleep, instead of lying 
from night till morning like a toad under a harrow.” 

This comment was either unheard or unheeded by the 
mother, and she went on : “ David, your extravagance is more 
than I can bear. I have been wonderfully supported under 
my other trials. If my children, though they are my flesh 
and blood, are not elected, the Lord is justified in their des- 
truction, and I am still. I have done my duty, and I know 
not ‘ why tarry His chariot wheels.’ ” 

“ It is an easy thing, ma’am,” said David, interrupting 
his mother, “ to be reconciled to everlasting destruction ; but 
if your mind is not equally resigned to the temporal ruin of 
a child, you must lend me the money.” 

“ Lend it ! You have already spent more than your por- 


116 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


tion in riotous living, and I cannot, in conscience, give you 
any thing,” 

Mrs. Wilson thus put a sudden conclusion to the conver- 
sation, and retreated from the field, like a skilful general, 
having exhausted all her ammunition. 

As she closed the door, David muttered, “ curses on her 
conscience ; it will never let her do what she is not inclined 
to, and always finds a reason to back her inclinations. The 
money I must have ; if fair means will not obtain it, foul 
must.” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


117 


CHAPTER II. 

Thought, and affliction, passion, Hell itself, 

She turns to favour, and to prettiness. 

Hamlet. 

It was on the evening of the day on which the conversation 
we have related had occurred between young Wilson and his 
mother, that Jane, just as she had parted with Erskine, after 
an unusually delightful walk, and was entering her aunt’s 
door, heard her name pronounced in a low voice. She turned, 
and saw an old man emerging from behind a projection of the 
house. He placed his finger on his lips by way of an admo- 
nition to silence, and said softly to Jane, u For the love of 
Heaven, come to my house to-night ; you may save life : tell 
no one, and come after the family is in bed.” 

u But, John, I do not know the way to your house,” replied 
Jane, amazed at the strange request. 

“ You shall have a guide, miss. Don’t be afraid ; ’tis 
not like you to be afraid when there is good to be done ; and 
I tell you, you may save life ; and every one that knows me, 
knows I never tell a lie for any body.” 

“Well, said Jane, after a moment’s pause u if I go, how 
shall I find the way ?” 

u That’s what I am afraid will frighten you most of all ; 


118 


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but it must be so. You know where Lucy Willett’s grave is. 
on the side of the hill, above the river ; there you will find 
crazy Bet waiting for you. She is a poor cracked body, but 
there is nobody I would sooner trust in any trouble ; besides, 
she is in the secret already, and. there is no help for it.” 

“But,” said Jane, “may I not get some one else to go 
with me ?” 

“ Not for the wide world. Nothing will harm you.” 

Jane was about to make some further protestation, when 
a sound from the house alarmed the man, and he disappeared 
as suddenly as he had appeared. 

John was an old man who had been well known to two or 
three successive generations in the village. He had not 
strength or health for hard labour, but had gained a subsistence 
by making baskets, weaving new seats into old chairs, collect- 
ing herbs for “ spring beer,” and digging medicinal roots 
from the mountains ; miscellaneous offices, which are usually 
performed by one person, where the great principle of a divi- 
sion of labour is yet unknown and unnecessary. A disciple of 
Gall might, perhaps, have detected in the conformation of the 
old man’s head, certain indications of a contemplative turn of 
mind, and a feeling heart ; but, as we are unlearned in that 
fashionable science, we shall simply remark, that there was in 
the mild cast of his large but sunken eye, and the deep-worn 
channels of his face, an expression that would lead an observer 
to think he had felt and suffered ; that he possessed the 
wisdom of reflection, as well as the experience of age ; and 
that he had been accustomed, in nature’s silent and solitary 
places to commune with the Author of Nature. He inhabited 
a cottage at some distance from the village, but within 
the precincts of the town. When the skill of the domestic 
leeches was at fault, in the case of a sick cow or a wormy child, 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


119 


he was called to a consultation ; and the efficacy of the sim- 
ples he had administered, had sometimes proved so great, as 
to induce a suspicion of a mysterious charm. But the super- 
stitious belief in witches and magic has vanished with the 
credulities of other times; and the awe of ‘John of the 
Mountain/ as he was called, or, for brevity’s sake, ‘John 
Mountain/ never outlived the period of childhood. 

Jane knew that John was honest and kind-hearted, and 
particularly well disposed to her, for he had occasionally 
brought her a pretty wild-flower, or a basket of berries ; and 
then he would say, “ Ah, Miss Jane, I grow old and forgetful, 
but the old man can’t forget the kindness that’s been done 
to him in days past ; you was as gay as a lark then. My 
poor old bald head ! it’s almost as bare inside as out ; but I 
shall never forget the time — it was a sorrowful year, we had 
had a hard winter, the snows drifted on the mountains, and 
for six weeks I never saw the town, and poor Sarah lying 
sick at home ; and when I did get out, I came straight to 
your mother’s, for she had always a pitiful heart, and an open 
and full hand too, and she stalked my alms basket full of 
provisions. Then you came skipping out of the other room, 
with a flannel gown in your hand, and your very eyes laughed 
with pleasure, and when you gave it to me, you said, “ It is 
for your wife, and I sewed every stitch of it, John and then 
you was not bigger than a poppet, and could not speak plain 
yet. When I got home, and. told my old woman, she shook 
her head, and said, you “ was not long for this world 
but I laughed at her foolishness, and asked her, if the finest 
saplings did not live to make the noblest trees ? Thanks to 
Him that is above, you are alive at this day, and many a 
wanderer will yet find shelter under your branches.” 

We trust our readers will pardon this digression, and ac- 


120 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


cept the gratitude of the old man, as a proof that all men's 
good deeds are not 1 written in sand.’ 

After John’s departure, Jane remained for a few moments 
where he had left her, ruminating . on his strange request, 
when her attention was called to a noise in her aunt’s sleep- 
ing apartment, and she heard, as she thought, crazy Bet’s 
voice raised to its highest pitch. She passed hastily through 
the passage, and on opening her aunt’s door, she beheld a 
scene of the greatest confusion. The bed-clothes had been 
hastily stripped &om the bed and strewed on the floor, and 
Bet stood at the open window with the bed in her right hand. 
She had, by a sudden exertion of her strength, made an enor- 
mous rent in the well-wove home-made tick, and was now 
quite leisurely shaking out the few feathers that still adhered 
to it. In her left hand she held a broom, which she dexter- 
ously brandished, to defend herself from the interference of 
Sukey, the colored servant girl, who stood panic-struck and 
motionless ; her dread of her mistress’s vengeance impelling 
her forward, and her fear of the moody maniac operating upon 
her locomotive powers, like a Gorgon influence. Her conflict- 
ing fears had not entirely changed her Ethiopian skin, but 
they had subtracted her colour in stripes, till she looked like 
Bobin Hood’s willow wand. 

“ Why did you not stop her?” exclaimed Jane, hastily 
passing the girl. 

“ Stop her, missy ? the land’s sake ! I could as easy stop 
a flash of lightning ! missy must think me a ’rac’lous crea- 
ture, respecting me to hold back such a harricand.” 

At Jane’s approach Bet dropped the broom, and threw 
the empty bed-tick at poor Sukey, who shook it off, not, how- 
ever, till her woolly head was completely powdered with the 
lint. “ Now, Sukey,” screamed Bet with a wild peal of 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


121 


laughter, “ look in the glass, and you’ll see how white you’ll 
be in Heaven ; the black stains will all be washed out 
there !” 

. “ But, Bet,” said J ane, where are the feathers ?” 

“Where child? she replied, smiling with the most provok- 
ing indifference, “ where are last year’s mourners ? where is 
yesterday’s sunshine, or the morning’s fog ?” 

“ Why did you do this, Bet ?” 

“ Do you ask a reason of me ?” she replied, with a tone 
in which sorrow and anger were equally mingled, and then 
putting her finger to her forehead, she added, “ the space is 
empty where it should be, Jane — quite empty, and sometime 
aching !” 

Jane felt that the poor woman was not a subject of re- 
proach ; and turning away, she said, “ Aun f will be very 
angry.” 

“ Yes,” replied Bet, “ she will weep and howl, but she 
should thank me for silencing some of the witnesses.” 

“ Witnesses, Bet?” 

“Yes, child, witnesses ; are not moth-eaten garments and 
corrupted riches witnesses against the rich, the hard-hearted, 
and close-handed ? She should not have denied a bed to my 
aching head and weary bod} 7 . She should not have told me, 
that the bare ground and hard boards were soft and easy 
enough for a “ rantipole beggar.” 

The recollection of the promise she had given to John 
now occurred to Jane, and she was deliberating whether or 
not to speak to Bet about it, when Mrs. Wilson, who had been 
absent on a visit to one of her neighbors, came in. In her 
passage through the kitchen, Sukey had hinted to her her 
loss, and she hastened on to ascertain its extent. Inquiries 
were superfluous ; the empty tick was lying where Sukey had 
6 


122 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


left it, and the feathers which it had contained were not. 
Mrs. Wilson darted forwards towards Bet, on whom she 
would have wreaked her hasty vengeance, but Bet, aware of 
her intention, sprang through the window, quick as thought, 
and so rapid, and seemingly, spiritual, was her flight, that a 
minute had scarcely passed, when the shrill tones of her voice 
were heard rising in the distance, and they were just able to 
distinguish the familiar words of her favorite methodist 
hymn — 

“ Sinners stand a trembling, 

Saints are rejoicing.” 

Mrs. Wilson turned to Jane, and with that disposition 
which such persons have when any evil befalls them, to lay 
the blame on somebody, she would have vented her spite on 
her, but it was too evident that the only part J ane had had 
in the misfortune was an ineffectual effort to avert it, and the 
good lady was deprived of even that alleviation of her calam- 
ity. This scene at which, in spite of her aunt’s awful pres- 
ence, Jane had laughed heartily, was not at all adapted to 
inspire her with confidence in the guide, whose wild and fan- 
tastic humours she knew it to be impossible for any one to 
control. Her resolution was a little shaken ; but, after all, 
she thought, “ It is possible I may find the house without her. 
I know the course I should take. At any rate, I should be 
miserable if any evil should come of my neglect of old John’s 
request. There can be no real dangers, and I will not ima- 
gine any.” 

Still, after the family were all hushed in repose, and Jane 
had stolen from her bed and dressed herself for her secret 
expedition, she shrunk involuntarily from the task before 
her. “ I do not like this mystery,” said she, mentally. “ I 
wish I had told my aunt, and asked David to go with me, or 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


123 


I might have told Mary Hull. There could have been no 
harm in that. But it is now too late. John said, I might 
save life, and I will think of nothing else.” 

She rose from th'e bed, where she had seated herself to 
ponder, for the last time, upon the difficulties before her, crept 
softly down stairs, passed her aunt’s room, and got clear of 
the house unmolested, except by a slight growl from Brutus, 
the house-dog, whose dreams she had broken, but, at her well- 
known kindly patting, and “ Lie down, Brutus, lie down,” he 
quietly resumed his sleeping posture. Her courage was 
stimulated by having surmounted one obstacle. The waning 
moon had risen, and shed its mild lustre over the peaceful 
scene. “ Now,” thought Jane, “ that I have stirred up my 
womanish thoughts with a manly spirit, I wonder what I 
could have been afraid of.” 

Anxious to ascertain whether she was to have the doubt- 
ful aid of crazy Bet’s conduct, or trust solely to her own, she 
pressed onward. To shorten her way to Lucy’s grave, and 
to avoid the possibility of observation, she soon left the pub- 
lic road, and walked along under the shadow of a low-browed 
hill, which had formerly been the bank of the river, but from 
which it had receded and left an interval of beautiful meadow 
between the hill and its present bed. The deep verdure of 
the meadow sparkled with myriads of fire-flies, that seemed 
in this, their hour, to be keeping their merry revels by the 
music of the passing stream. The way was, as yet, perfectly 
familiar to Jane. After walking some distance in a straight 
line, she crossed the meadow by a direct path to a large tree, 
which had been, in part, uprooted by a freshet , and which now 
lay across the river, and supplied a rude passage to the ad- 
venturous ; the tenacity of some of its roots still retaining it 
firmly in the bank. Fortunately the stream was unusually 


124 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


low, and when our heroine reached the farther extremity of 
the fallen trunk, she sprang without difficulty over the few 
feet of water between her and the dry sand of the shore. 

“ That’s well done !” exclaimed crazy Bet, starting up 
from a mound in the form of a grave. “ Strong of heart, and 
light of foot, you are a fit follower for one that hates the broad 
and beaten road, and loves the narrow straight way and the 
high rock. Sit down and rest you,” she continued, for Jane 
was out of breath from ascending the deep bank to where 
crazy Bet stood ; “ sit down, child ; you may sit quiet. It 
is not time for her to rise yet.” 

“ Oh, Bet,” said J ane, “ if you love me, take those greens 
off your head ; they make you look so wild.” 

A stouter heart than Jane’s would have quailed at Bet’s 
appearance. She had taken off her old bonnet and tied it on 
a branch of the tree that shaded the grave, and twisted 
around her head a full leaved vine, by which she had confined 
bunches of wild flowers, that drooped around her pale brow 
and haggard face ; her long hair was streaming over her 
shoulders ; her little black mantle thrown back, leaving her 
throat and neck bare. The excitement of the scene, the pur- 
pose of the expedition, and the moonlight, gave to her large 
black eyes an unusual brightness. 

To Jane’s earnest entreaty she replied, “ Child, you know 
not what you ask. Take off these greens, indeed ! Every 
leaf of them is a prayer. There is a charm in every one of 
them. There is not an imp of the evil one that dares to 
touch me while I wear them. The toad with his glistening 
eye, springs far from me ; and the big scaly snake, glides 
away from me.” 

“But,” said Jane, in a tone of more timid expostulation, 
“what have I to guard me, Bet?” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


125 


“ You !” and as she spoke she stroked Jane’s hair hack 
from her pure smooth brow ; “have not you innocence ? and 
know you not that is ‘ God’s seal in the forehead’ to keep you 
from all harm. I have had Guerdeen , hut innocence is 
stronger than a regiment of them ! Foolish girl ! sit down — 
I say, she will not rise yet.” 

Jane obeyed her command, and rallying her spirits, re- 
plied, “ No, Bet, I am not afraid she will rise. I believe the 
dead lie very quiet in their graves.” 

“ Yes, those may that die in their beds, and are buried by 
the tolling of the bell, and lie with company about them in 
the churchyard ; but, I tell you, those that row themselves 
over the dark river, never have a quiet night’s rest in their 
cold beds.” 

“ Come,” said Jane, impatiently rising, “ for mercy’s sake, 
let us go.” 

“ I cannot stir from this spot,” replied Bet, “ till the moon 
gets above that tree ; and so be quiet, while I tell you Lucy’s 
story. Why, child, I set here watching by her many a night, 
till her hour comes, and then I always go away, for the dead 
don’t love to be seen rising from their beds.” 

“ Well, Bet, tell me Lucy’s story, and then I hope you 
will not keep me any longer here ; and you need not tell me 
much, for, you know, I have heard it a thousand times.” 

“ Ah ! but you did not see her as I did, when Ashley’s 
men went out, and she followed them, and begged them on 
her knees, for the love of God, not to fire upon the prisoners ; 
for the story had come, that Shay’s* men would cover their 
front with the captives ; and you did not see her when he 
was brought to her shot through the heart, and dead as she 


* See note at tlie end. 


126 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


is now. She did not speak a word — she fell upon his neck, 
and she clasped her arms round him ; they thought to cut 
them off, it was so hard to get them loose ; — and when they 
took her from him, (and the maniac laid her hand on J ane’s 
head) she was all gone here. The very day they put him 
under the green sod, she drowned herself in that deep place, 
under the mourning willow, that the hoys call Lucy’s well. 
And they buried her here for the squires and the deacons 
found it against law and gospel too, to give her Christian 
burial.” 

Bet told all these circumstances with an expression and 
action that showed she was living the scene over, while her 
mind dwelt on them. Jane was deeply interested ; and when 
Bet concluded, she said, u Poor Lucy ! I never felt so much 
for her.” 

“ That’s right, child : now we will go on ; but first let 
that tear-drop that glistens in the moonbeam, fall on the 
grave, it helps to keep the grass green ; and the dead like to 
be cried for,” she added mournfully. 

They now proceeded ; crazy Bet leading the way, with 
long and hasty strides, in a diagonal course still ascending 
the hill, till she plunged into a deep wood, so richly clothed 
with foliage, as to be impervious to the moon-beams, and so 
choaked with underbrush, that Jane found it very difficult 
to keep up with her pioneer. They soon however, emerged 
into an open space, completely surrounded and enclosed by 
lofty trees. Crazy Bet had not spoken since they began their 
walk ; she now stopped, and turning abruptly to Jane, “ Bo 
you know,” said she, “ who are the worshippers that meet 
in this temple ? the spirits that were 1 sometime disobedient,’ 
but since He went and preached to them, they came out from 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


127 


their prisoii house, and worship in the open air, and under the 
light of the blessed heavens.” 

“ It is a beautiful spot,” said Jane; I should think all 
obedient spirits might worship in this temple. 

“ Say you so ; — then worship with me.” The maniac fell 
on her knees — Jane knelt beside her : she had caught a spark 
of her companion’s enthusiasm. The singularity of her situ- 
ation, the beauty of the night, the novelty of the place, on 
which the moon now riding high in the heavens poured a 
flood of silver light, all conspired to give a high tone to 
her feelings. It is not strange she should have thought 
she never heard any thing so sublime as the prayer of 
her crazed conductor — who raised her arms and poured 
out her soul in passages of scripture the most sublime 
and striking, woven together by her own glowing language. 
She concluded suddenly, and springing on her feet, said to 
Jane, “Now follow me: fear not, and falter not; for you 
know what awaits the fearful and unbelieving,” 

Jane assured her she had no fear but that of being too 
late. “You need not think of that; the spirit never quits 
till I come.” 

They now turned into the wood by a narrow pathway, 
whose entrance laid under the shadow of twoyoung beach trees: 
crazy Bet paused — “ See ye these, child,” said she, pointing 
to the trees, “ I know two who grew up thus on the same 
spot of earth ; — so lovingly they grew,” and she pointed to the 
interlacing of the branches — “ young and beautiful ; but the 
pxe was laid to the root of one — and the other (and she press- 
ed both her hands on her head, and screamed wildly) died 
here.” A burst of tears afforded her a sudden relief. 

“ Poor broken-hearted creature !” murmured J ane. 
u No, child ; when she weeps, then the band is loosened 


128 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


for” added she, drawing closer to Jane and whispering, 
u they put an iron band around her head, and when she is in 
darkness, it presses till she thinks she is in the place of the 
tormenter : by the light of the moon it’s loosened. You can- 
not see it ; but it is there — always there.” 

Jane began now to be alarmed at the excitement of Bet’s 
imagination ; and turning from her abruptly, entered the 
path, which, after they had proceeded a few yards, seemed to 
be leading them into a wild trackless region. “ Where are 
we going Bet?” she exclaimed. “Through a pass, child, 
that none knows but the wild bird and the wild woman. 
Have you never heard of the “ caves of the mountain ?”* 

“ Yes,” replied Jane ; “ but I had rather not go through 
them to-night. Cannot we go some other way !” 

“ Nay, there is no other way ; follow me, and fear not.” 

Jane had often heard of the pass called the ‘ Mountain- 
Caves,’ and she believed it had only been penetrated by a few 
rash youths of. daring and adventurous spirit. She was ap- 
palled at the thought of entering it in the dead of night, and 
with such a conductor ; she paused, but she could see no way 
of escape, and summoning all her resolution, she followed 
Bet, who took no note of her scruples. They now entered a 
defile, which apparently had been made by some tremendous 
convulsion of nature, that had rent the mountain asunder, 
and piled rock on rock in the deep abyss. The breadth of the 
passage, which was walled in by the perpendicular sides of the 
mountain, was not in any place more than twenty feet ; and 
sometimes so narrow, that Jane thought she might have ex- 

* The seekers and lovers of Nature’s beauties have multiplied since “ A 
New England Tale ’’was written.” The “Caves of the Mountain,” or in our 
rustic phrase, the “ Ice-hole,” is now well known to the visitors of Berkshire 
as the “ Ice Glen 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


129 


tended her arms quite across it. But she had no leisure for 
critical accuracy ; her wayward guide pressed on, heedless of 
the difficulties of the way. She would pass between huge 
rocks, that had rolled so near together, as to leave but *a very 
narrow passage between them ; then grasping the tangled 
roots that projected from the side of the mountain, and plac- 
ing her feet in the fissures of the rocks, or in the little chan- 
nels that had been worn by the continual dropping from the 
mountain rills, she would glide over swiftly and safely, as if 
she had been on the beaten highway. They were sometimes 
compelled, in the depths of the caverns, to prostrate them- 
selves, and creep through narrow apertures between the rocks 
it was impossible to surmount ; and J ane felt that she was 
passing over masses of ice, the accumulation perhaps of a 
hundred winters. She was fleet and agile, and inspired with 
almost supernatural courage ; she, 1 though a woman, natural- 
ly born to fears,’ followed on resolutely, till they came to an 
immense rock, whose conical and giant form rested on broken 
masses below, that on every side were propping this k mighty 
monarch of the scene.’ 

For the first time, crazy Bet seemed to remember she had 
a companion, and to give a thought to her safety. “ Jane,” 
said she, u go carefully over this lower ledge, there is a nar- 
row foothold there ; let not your foot slip on the wet leaves, 
or the soft moss. I am in the spirit, and I must mount to 
the summit.” 

Jane obeyed her directions, and when without much 
trouble, she had attained the farther side of the rock, she 
looked back for crazy Bet, and saw her standing between 
heaven and earth on the very topmost point of the high rock : 
she leant on the branch of a tree she had broken off in her 
struggle to reach that lofty station. The moon had declined 
6 * 


130 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


a little from the meridian ; her oblique rays did not penetrate 
the depths where J ane stood, hut fell in their full brightness 
on the face of her votress above. Her head, as we have 
noticed, was fantastically dressed with vines and flowers ; 
her eyes were in a fine ‘ frenzy, rolling from earth to heaven, 
and heaven to earth she looked like the wild genius of the 
savage scene, and she seemed to breathe its spirit, when, after 
a moment’s silence, she sang, with a powerful and thrilling 
voice, which waked the sleeping echoes of the mountain, the 
following stanza : 

M Tell them ‘ I AM,’ Jehovah said 
To Moses, while earth heard in dread, 

And smitten to the heart; 

At once above, beneath, around, 

All nature, without voice or sound, 

Replied, oh Lord, Thou art 1” 

In vain Jane called upon her. In vain she entreated her 
to descend. She seemed wrapped in some heavenly vision ; 
and she stood mute again and motionless, till a bird, that had 
been scared from its nest in a cleft of the rock, by the wild 
sounds, fluttered over her and lighted on the branch she still 
held in her hand. “ Oh !” exclaimed she, “ messenger of 
love and mercy, I am content and she swiftly descended 
the sloping side of the rock, which she hardly seemed to 
touch. 

“Now,” said Jane, soothingly, “you are rested, let us go 
on.” 

“ Rested ! yes, my body is rested, but my spirit has been 
the way of the eagle in the air. You cannot bear the reve- 
lation now, child. Come on, and do your earthly work.” 

They walked on for a few yards, when Bet suddenly 
turned to the left and ascended the mountain, which was 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


131 


there less steep and rugged than at any place they had passed. 
At a short distance before her Jane perceived, glimmering 
through the trees, a faint light. “ Heaven be praised !” said 
she, 11 that must be John’s cottage.” 

As they came nearer the dog barked ; and the old man, 
coming out of the door, signed to Jane to sit down on a log, 
which answered the purpose of a rude door-step ; and then 
speaking to crazy Bet. in a voice of authority, which, to Jane’s 
utter surprise, she meekly obeyed — u Take off,” said he, “ you 
mad fool, them jinglements from your head, and stroke your 
hair back like a decent Christian woman; get into the house, 
but mind you, say not a word to her.” 

Crazy Bet entered the house, and John, turning to Jane, 
said, 11 You are an angel of goodness for coming here to-night, 
though I am afraid it will do no good ; but since you are 
here, you shall see her.” 

u See her! see what, John?” interrupted Jane. 

u That’s what I must tell you, miss ; but it is a piercing 
story to tell to one that looks like you. It’s telling the deeds 
of the pit to the angels above.” He then went on to state, 
that a few days before, he had been searching the mountains 
for some medicinal roots, when his attention was suddenly 
arrested by a, low moaning sound, and on going in the direc- 
tion from which it came, he found a very young looking 
creature, with a new-born infant, wrapped in a shawl, and 
lying in her arms. He spoke to the mother, but she made no 
reply, and seemed quite unconscious of every thing, till he 
attempted to take the child from her ; she then -grasped it so 
firmly, that he found it difficult to remove it. He called his 
wife to his assistance, and placed the infant in her arms. 
Pity for so young a sufferer, nerved the old man with unwon- 
ted strength, and enabled him to bear the mother to his hut. 


I 

132 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 

✓ 

There he used the simple restoratives his skill dictated ; but 
nothing produced any effect till the child, with whom the old 
woman had taken unwearied pains, revived and cried. “ The 
sound,” he said, u seemed to waken life in a dead body.” The 
mother extended her arms, as if to feel for her child, and they 
gently laid it in them. She felt the touch of its face, and 
burst into a flood of tears, which seemed greatly to relieve 
her ; for after that she took a little nourishment, and fell into 
a sweet sleep, from which she awoke in a state to make some 
explanations to her curious preservers. But as the account 
she gave of herself was, of necessity, interrupted and imper- 
fect, we shall take the liberty to avail ourselves of our knowl- 
edge of her history, and offer our readers a slight sketch 
of it. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


133 


CHAPTER I. 

Death lies on her like an untimely frost, 

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

Romeo and Juliet. 


The name of the stranger was Mary Oakley. Her parents 
had gone out adventurers to the West Indies, where, at the 
opening of flattering prospects, they both died victims to the 
fever of the climate, which seldom spares a northern constitu- 
tion. Mary, then in her infancy, had been sent home to her 
grandparents, who nursed this only relic of their unfortunate 
children with doting fondness. They wer-e in humble life ; 
and they denied themselves every comfort, that they might 
gratify every wish, reasonable and unreasonable, of their dar- 
ling child. She, affectionate and ardent in her nature, grew 
up impetuous and volatile. Instead of ‘rocking the cradle of 
reposing age,’ she made the lives of her old parents resemble 
a fitful April day, sunshine and cloud succeeding each other 
in rapid alternation. She loved the old people tenderly — 
passionately, when she had just received a favour from them ; 
but. like other spoiled children, she never testified that love 
by deferring her will to theirs, or suffering their wisdom to 
govern her childish inclinations. She grew up 


134 


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“ Fair as the form that, wove in fancy’s loom, 

Floats in light vision round the poet’s head.” 

Most unhappily for her, there was a college in the town 
where she lived, and she very early became the favourite belle 
of the young collegians, whose attentions she received with 
delight, in spite of the remonstrances and entreaties of her 
guardians, who were well aware that a young and beautiful 
creature could not, with propriety or safety, receive the civil- 
ities of her superiors in station, attracted by her personal 
charms. 

David Wilson, more artful, more unprincipled than any 
of his companions, addressed her with the most extravagant 
flattery, and lavished on her costly favours. Giddy and cred- 
ulous, poor Mary was a victim to his libertinism. He soothed 
her with hopes and promises, till, in consequence of the fear 
of detection in another transaction, where detection would have 

been dangerous, he left and returned to his mother’s, 

without giving Mary the slightest intimation of his departure. 

She took the desperate resolution of following him. She 
felt certain she should not survive her confinement, and hoped 
to secure the protection of Wilson for her infant. Her ten- 
derness, we believe, more than her pride, induced her to con- 
ceal her miseries from her only true friends. She thought 
any thing would be easier for them to bear than a knowledge 
of her misconduct ; and for the few days she remained under 
their roof, and while she was preparing a disguise for her 
perilous journey, she affected slight sickness and derangement. 
They were alarmed and anxious, and insisted on making a 
bed for her in their room : this somewhat embarrassed her 
proceedings ; but, on the night of her escape, she told them, 
with a determined manner, that she could only sleep in her 
own bed, and alone in her own room. They did not resist 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


135 


her ; they never had. Mary kissed them when she bade them 
good-night with unusual tenderness. They went sorrowing 
to their beds. She wrote a few incoherent lines, addressed 
to them, praying for their forgiveness ; expressing her grati- 
tude and her love ; and telling them, that life before her 
seemed a long and a dark road, and she did not wish to go 
any farther in it, and begging them not to search for ner, for 
in one hour the waves would roll over her. She placed the 
scroll on the table, 'crept out of her window, and left for ever 
the protecting roof of her kind old parents. 

When they awoke to a knowledge of their loss, they were 
overwhelmed with grief. Their neighbours flocked about them, 
to offer their assistance and consolation ; and though some of 
the most penetrating among them suspected the cause of the 
poor girl’s desperation, more forbearing and kind than per- 
sons usually are in such circumstances, they spared the old 
people the light of their conjectures. 

Poor Mary persevered in her fatiguing and miserable 
journey, which was rendered much longer by her fearfully 
shunning the public road. She obtained a kind shelter at 
the farmers’ houses at night, where she always contrived to 
satisfy their curiosity by some plausible account of herself. 
At the end of a week she arrived, wearied and exhausted, in 
the neighbourhood of Wilson. She watched for him in the 
evening, near his mother’s house, and succeeded in obtaining 
an interview with him. He was enraged that she had follow- 
ed him, and said that it was impossible for him to do any 
thing for her. She told him she asked nothing for herself ; 
but she entreated him not to add to his guilt the crime of 
suffering their unhappy offspring to die with neglect. Utterly 
selfish and hard-hearted, the wretch turned from her without 
one word of kindness : and then recollecting that if she was 


136 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


discovered, he should be involved in farther troubles, he re- 
turned, and gave her a direction, which she believed would 
enable her to find John’s cottage on the mountain. If she 
gets there, thought he as he left her,, whether she lives 01 
dies, she will be far out of the way for the present — and the 
future must take care of itself. 

Mary with a faint heart followed his direction, and the 
next day she was discovered by old. John in the situation we 
have mentioned. Perhaps there are some? who cannot believe 
that any being should be so utterly depra # ved as David Wil- 
son. But let them remember, that he began with a nature 
more inclined to evil than to good, that his mother’s mis- 
management had increased every thing that was bad in him, 
and extinguished every thing that was good — that the con- 
tinual contradictions of his mother’s professions and life, had 
led him to an entire disbelief of the truths of religion, as well 
as a contempt of its restraints. 

After the old man had finished Mary’s story, or rather so 
much of it as he had been able to gather from her confessions, 
Jane asked him “Why she had been sent for?” 

“ Why miss,” he replied, “ after the poor thing had come 
to herself, all her trouble seemed to be about her baby, and 
I did not know what to advise her ; my woman and I might 
have done for it for the present, but our sun is almost set, 
and we could do but for a little while. I proposed to her to 
go for Wilson, and I am sure the sight of her might have 
softened a heart of flint ; but she shivered at the bare men- 
tion of it : she said, ‘No, no; I cannot see that cruel face 
upon my deathbed.’ And then I thought of you, and I told 
her if there was any body could bring him to a sense of right 
it was you, and that at any rate you might think of some 
comfort for her ; for I told her every body in the village 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


137 


knew you for the wisest and discreetest, and gentlest. At 
first she relucted ; and then the sight of her baby seemed to 
persuade her, and. she bade me go, but she gave me a strict 
charge that no one should come with you ; for she said she 
wished her memory buried with her in the grave. When I 
left her to go to you, I hoped you might speak some words of 
comfort to her that would be better than medicine for her, 
and heal the body as well as the mind ; but when I came 
back, there was a dreadful change — the poor little one had 
gone into a fit, and she would take it from my wife into her 
arms, and there it died more than an hour ago — and she sits 
up in the bed holding it yet — and she has not spoken a word, 
nor turned her eyes from it — her cheeks look as if there was 
a living fire consuming her. Oh, Miss Jane, it is awful to 
look upon such a fallen star ! Now you are prepared — come 
in — may be the sight of you will rouse her.” 

Jane followed John into his little habitation. The old 
couple had kindly resigned their only bed to the sufferer. 
She was sitting as John had described her, fixed as a statue. 
Her beautiful black glossy curls, which had been so often ad- 
mired and envied, were snarled, and clustered in rich masses 
over her temples and neck. A tear that had started from 
the fountain of feeling, now sealed for ever, hung on the dark 
rich eye-lash that fringed her downcast eye. J ane wondered 
that any thing so wretched could look so lovely. Crazy Bet 
was kneeling at the foot of the bed, and apparently absorbed 
in prayer, for her eyes were closed, and her lips moved, 
though they emitted no sound. The old woman sat in the 
corner of the fire-place, smoking a broken pipe, to soothe the 
unusual agitation she felt. 

Jane advanced towards the bed. “Speak to her,” said 
John. Jane stooped, and laid her hand gently on Mary’s. 


138 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


She raised her eyes for the first time, and turned them on 
Jane with a look of earnest inquiry, and then shaking her 
head, she said in a low mournful voice — “ No, no ; we cannot 
be parted; you mean to take her to heaven, and you say I 
am guilty, and must not go. They told me you were coming 
— you need not hide your wings — I know you — there is none 
but an angel would look upon me with pity.” 

“ Oh!” exclaimed Jane, “can nothing be done for her? 
at least let us take away this dead child, it is growing cold 
in her arms.” She attempted to take the child, and Mary 
relaxed her hold ; but as she did so, she uttered a faint 
scream, the paleness of death overspread her face, and she fell 
back on the pillow. 

“ Ah, she is gone !” exclaimed J ohn. 

Crazy Bet sprang on her feet, and raised her hand — 
“ Hush !” said she, “I heard a voice saying, ‘Her sins are 
forgiven ’ — 1 she is one come out of great tribulation.’ ” 

There were a few moments of as perfect stillness as if they 
had all been made dumb and motionless by the stroke of death. 
J ane was the first to break silence — “ Did she,” she inquired 
of the old man, “ express any penitence — any hope ?” 

John shook his head. “ Them things did not seem to lay 
on her mind : and I did not think it worth while to disturb 
her about them. Ah, miss, the great thing is how we live, 
not how we die.” 

Jane felt the anxiety, so natural, to obtain some religious 
expression, that should indicate preparation in the mind of 
the departed. 

“ Surely,” said she, “it is never too late, to repent — to beg 
forgiveness.” 

“ No, miss,” replied John, who seemed to have religious 
notions of his own — “ especially when there has been such a 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


139 


short account as this poor child had ; hut the work must he 
all between the creature and the Creator ; and for my part, I 
don’t place much dependence on what people say on a death- 
bed. I have lived a long life, Miss Jane, and many a one 
have I seen, and heard too, when sickness and distress were 
heavy upon them, and death staring them in the face, and 
they could not sin any more — they would seem to repent, and 
talk as beautiful as any saint ; but if the Lord took his 
hand from them, and they got well again, they went right 
back into the old track. No, Miss Jane, it is the life — it is 
the life, we must look to. This child,” he added, going to 
the bed, and laying his brown and shrivelled hand upon her 
fair young brow, now : chill and changeless “ this child was 
but sixteen, she told me so. The Lord only knows what 
temptations she has had. He it is, Miss Jane, that has put 
that in our hearts that makes us feel sorry for her now ; and 
can you think that He' is less pitiful than we are? I think 
she will be beaten with few stripes ; but,” he continued sol- 
emnly, covering his face with his hands, — “ we are poor ig- 
norant creatures ; it is all a mystery after this world ; we 
know nothing about it.” 

“Yes,” said Jane, “we do know, John, that all will be 
right.” 

“ True,” he replied ; “ and it is that should make us lay 
our fingers on our mouths and be still.” 

Jane had been so much absorbed in the mournful scene, 
that the necessity of her return before the breaking of day 
had not occurred to her mind, and would not, perhaps, if 
John had not, after a few moments’ pause, reminded her of it, 
by saying, “ I am sorry, Miss Jane, you have had such a walk 
for nothing ; but,” added he, “ to the wise nothing is vain, 
and you are of so teachable a make, that you may have learn- 


140 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


ed some good lessons here ; you may learn, at least, that there 
is nothing to he much grieved for in this world but guilt ; 
and some people go through a long life without learning that. 
You had better return now; I will go round the hill with 
you, and show you the path this crazy creature should have 
led you. She is in one of her still fits now : there is nothing 
calms her down like seeing death : she will not move from 
here till after the burying.” 

Jane looked for the last time on the beautiful form be- 
fore her, and with the ingenuous and keen feeling of youth, 
wept aloud. 

“ It is indeed a sore sight,” said John ; “ it makes my old 
eyes run over as they have not for many a year. The Lord 
have mercy on her destroyer ! Oh, miss ! it is sad to see 
this beautiful flower cut down in its prime ; but who would 
change her condition for his ? He may go rioting on, but 
there is that gnawing at his heart’s core that will not be qui- 
eted.” 

Jane told the kind old man that she was now ready to go, and 
they left the hut together. He led her by a narrow foot-path 
around the base of the mountain, till they came to a part of 
the way familiar to J ane. She then parted from her conduc- 
tor, after inquiring of him if he could inter the bodies secret- 
ly ? He replied, that he could without much difficulty ; and 
he certainly should, for he had given his promise to the young 
creature, who seemed to dread nothing so much as a discov- 
ery which might lead to her old parents knowing her real 
fate. 

Anxious to reach home in time to avoid the necessity of 
any disclosures, Jane hastened forward, and arrived at her 
aunt’s before the east gave the slightest token of the approach 
of day. She entered the house carefully, and turned into 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


141 


the parlour to look for some refreshment in an adjoining pan- 
try. A long walk, and a good deal of emotion, we believe, 
in real life, are very apt to make people, even the most refin- 
ed, hungry and thirst}^. 

Jane had entered the parlour, and closed the door after her, 
before she perceived that she was not the only person in it ; 
but she started with alarm, which certainly was not confined 
to herself, when she saw standing at Mrs. Wilson’s desk, 
which was placed at one corner of the room, her son David, 
with his mother’s pocket-book in his hand, from which he 
was in the act of subtracting a precious roll of bank bills 
that had been deposited there the day before. Jane paused 
for a moment, and but for a moment, for as the truth flashed 
on her, she sprang forward, and seizing his arm, exclaimed, 
“ For Heaven’s sake, David, put back that money ! Do not 
load yourself with any more sins.” 

He shook her off, and hastily stuffing the money in his 
pocket, said that he must have it ; that his mother would not 
give him enough to save him from destruction ; that he 
had told her ruin was hanging over his head; that she 
had driven him to help himself ; and, “ as to sin,’t he added 
fiercely, u I am in too deep already to be frightened by that 
thought.” 

It occurred to Jane that he might have been driven to 
this mode of supplying himself, in order to relieve the ex- 
treme need of Mary Oakley ; and she told him, in a hurried 
manner, the events of the night. For a moment he felt the 
sting of conscience, and, perhaps, a touch of human feeling ; 
for he staggered back into a chair, and covering his face with 
his hands, muttered, l: Dead ! Mary dead ! Good Grod ! Hell 
has no place bad enough for me and then rousing himself, 
he said, with a deep tone, “ Jane Elton, I am a ruined, des- 


142 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE 


perate man. You thought too well of me, when you imagined 
it was for that poor girl I was doing this deed. No, no ! her 
cries did not trouble me ; but there are those whose clamours 
must be hushed by money — curse on them !” 

“ But,” said Jane. “ is there no other way, David? I will 
entreat your mother for you.” 

“ Yes ! yes, and she will heed you as much as a wolf does 
the bleating of a lamb. I tell you, I am desperate, Jane, 
and care not for the consequences. But,” he added, “ 1 will 
run no risk of discovery,” and as he spoke, he drew a pistol 
from beneath his surtout, and putting the muzzle to his 
breast, said to Jane, “ give me your solemn promise, that you 
will never betray me, or I will put myself beyond the reach 
of human punishment.” 

“Oh!” said Jane, “I will promise any thing. Do not 
destroy your soul and body both.” 

“ Do you promise, then ?” 

“ I do. most solemnly.” 

“ Then,” said he, hastily replacing the pistol, and locking 
the desk with the false key he had obtained ; “ then all is as 
well as it can be. My mother will suspect, but she will not 
dare to tell whom ; and your promise, Jane, maks me se- 
cure.” 

J ane saw he was so determined, that any further interposi- 
tion would be useless ; and she hurried away to her own 
apartment, where she threw herself upon her bed, sorrowing 
for the crimes and miseries of others. Quite exhausted with 
the fatigues of the night, she soon fell asleep. 

She was too much distressed and terrified, to reflect upon 
the consequences that might result from the exacted promise. 
She had, doubtless, been unnecessarily alarmed by David’s 
threat of self-slaughter ; for, confused and desperate as he 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


143 


was, he would hardly have proceeded to such an outrage ; 
and, besides, we have reason to believe the pistol was neither 
primed nor loaded, hut that he had provided himself with it 
for emergencies which might occur in the desperate career in 
which he had engaged. He . had been concerned with two 
ingenious villains in changing the denomination of bank bills. 
His accomplices had been detected and imprisoned, and they 
were now exacting money from him by threatening to disclose 
his agency in the transaction. 

Always careless of involving himself in guilt, and goaded 
on by the fear of the state-prison, he resolved, without hesita- 
tion, on this robbery, which would not only give him the 
means of present relief, but would supply him with a store 
for future demands, which he had every reason to expect from 
the character of his comrades. 


144 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


CHAPTER XL 


There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 

For I am arm’d so strong in honesty, 

That they pass by me as the idle wind, 

Which I respect not. 

Julius Cjesar. 

Oane, exhausted by the agitations of the night, contrary to 
her usual custom, remained in bed much longer than the 
other members of the family, and did not awake from deep 
and unquiet slumbers, till the bell called the household to 
prayers. 

Mrs. Wilson was scrupulous in exacting the attendance of 
every member of her family at her morning and evening de- 
votions. With this requisition Jane punctually and cheer- 
fully complied, as she did with all those that did not require 
a violation of principle. But still she had often occasion 
secretly to lament, that where there was so much of the form 
of worship, there was so little of its spirit and truth ; and she 
sometimes felt an involuntary self-reproach, that her body 
should be in the attitude of devotion, while her mind was fol- 
lowing her aunt through earth, sea, and skies, or pausing to 
wonder at the remarkable inadaptation of her prayers to 
the condition and wants of humanity in general, and espe- 
cially to their particular modification in her own family. 




A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


145 


Mrs. Wilson was fond of the bold and highly figurative 
language of the prophets ; and often identified herself with 
the Psalmist, in his exultation over his enemies, in his denun- 
ciations, and in his appeals for vengeance. 

We leave to theologians to decide, whether these expres- 
sions from the king of Israel are meant for the enemies of the 
church, or whether they are to be imputed to the dim light 
which the best enjoyed under the Jewish dispensation. At 
any rate such as come to us in 1 so questionable a shape,’ 
ought not to be employed as the medium of a Christian’s prayer. 

When Jane entered the room, she found her aunt had be- 
gun her devotions, which were evidently more confused than 
usual ; and when she said (her voice wrought up to the highest 
pitch) “ Lo ! thine enemies, 0 Lord ! lo, thine enemies shall 
perish : all the workers of iniquity shall be scattered ; but 
my horn slialt thou exalt like the horn of a unicorn : I shall 
be anointed with fresh oil : mine eye also shall see my de- 
sire on my enemies, and my ears shall hear my desire of the 
wicked that rise up against me J ane perceived, from her 
unusual emotion, that she must allude to something that 
touched her own affairs, and she conjectured that she had al- 
ready discovered the robbery. Her conjectures were strength- 
ened when she observed, that, during the breakfast, her aunt 
seemed very much agitated ; but she was at a loss to account 
for the look she darted on her, when one of the children said, 
“ How your hair looks, Jane ; this is the first time I ever saw 
you come to breakfast without combing it.” 

Jane replied, that she had overslept. 

“ You look more,” said Elvira, “as if you had been watch- 
ing all night, and crying too, I should imagine, from the red- 
ness of your eyes — and now I think of it,” she added, regard- 
7 


146 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


less of Jane’s embarrassment, “ I am sure I heard your door 
shut in the night, and you walking about your room.” 

Jane was more confused by the expression of her aunt’s 
face, than by her cousin’s observations. What, thought she, 
can I have done to provoke her? I certainly have done 
nothing ; but there is never a storm in the family, without 
my biding some of its pitiless pelting. 

After breakfast, the family dispersed, as usual, excepting 
Mrs. Wilson, David, and Jane, who remained to assist her 
aunt in removing the breakfast apparatus. Mrs. Wilson, 
neither wishing nor able any longer to restrain her wrath, 
went up to her desk, and taking hold of a pocket handkerchief 
which appeared to lie on the top of it, but which, as she 
stretched it out, showed one end caught and fastened in the 
desk — “Do you know this handkerchief, Jane Elton?” she 
said, in a voice choking with passion. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” replied Jane, turning pale — “ it is mine.” 
She ventured, as she spoke, to look at David. His eyes were 
fixed on a newspaper, he seemed to be reading ; not a muscle 
of his face moved, nor was there the slightest trace of emo- 
tion. 

“ Yours,” said Mrs. Wilson ; “ that you could not deny, 
for your name is at full length on it ; and when did you have 
it last?” 

“ Last night, ma’am.” 

“ And who has robbed me of five hundred dollars ? Cau 
you answer to that ?” 

Jane made no reply. She saw, that her aunt’s suspicions 
rested on her, and she perceived, at once, the cruel dilemma 
in which she had involved herself by L r promise to David. 

u Answer me that,” repeated Mrs. Wilson, violently. 

That I cannot answer you, ma’am.” 


. A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


147 


“And you mean to deny that you have taken it your- 
self?” 

“ Certainly I do, ma’am,” replied Jane, firmly, for she 
had now recovered her self-possession. u I am perfectly in- 
nocent ; and I am sure that, whatever appearances there may 
be against me, you cannot believe me guilty— you do not.” 

u And do you think to face me down in this way? T have 
evidence enough to satisfy any court of justice. Was not you 
heard up in the night — your guilty face told the story, at 
breakfast, plainer than words could tell it. David,” she con- 
tinued to her son, who had thrown down the paper and walk- 
ed to the window, where he stood with his back to his mother, 
affecting to whistle to a dog without ; “ David, I call you to 

witness this handkerchief, and what has now been said ; and 

\ 

remember, she does not deny that she left it here.” 

One honest feeling had a momentary ascendency in Da- 
vid’s bosom ; and he had risen from his seat with the deter- 
mination to disclose the truth, but he was checked by the re- 
collection that he should be compelled to restore the money, 
which he had not yet disposed of. He thought, too, that his 
mother knew, in her heart, who had taken the money ; that 
she would not dare to disclose her loss, and if she did, it 
would be time enough for him to interpose when Jane should 
be in danger of suffering otherwise than in the opinion of hip 
mother, whose opinion, he thought, not worth caring for. 
Therefore, when called upon by his mother, he made no reply, 
but turning round and facing the accuser and the accused, he 
looked as composed as any uninterested spectator. 

Mrs. Wilson proceeded, “Restore me my money, or 
abide the consequences.” 

“ The consequences I must abide, and I do not fear then? 


148 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


nor shrink from them, for I am innocent, and God will pro- 
tect me.” 

At this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of 
Edward Erskine ; and our poor heroine, though the instant 
before she had felt assured and tranquil in her panoply di- 
vine, burst into tears, and left the room. She could not en- 
dure the thought of degradation in Erskine’s esteem ; and she 
was very sure that her aunt would not lose such an opportunity 
of robbing her of his good opinion. She did not mistake. 
Mrs. Wilson closed the door after Jane ; and seating herself, 
all unused as she was to the melting mood, gave way to a 
passion of tears and sobs, which were, as we think, a sincere 
tribute to the loss she had experienced. 

u For Heaven’s sake, tell me what is the matter ?” said 
Erskine to young Wilson ; for his impatience for an explana- 
tion became irrepressible, not on account of the old woman’s 
emotion, for she might have wept till she was like Niobe, all 
tears, without provoking an inquiry, but J ane’s distress had 
excited his anxiety. 

“ The Lord knows,” replied David ; u there is always a 
storm in this house ;” and he flung out of the room without 
vouchsafing a more explicit answer. 

Erskine turned to Mrs. Wilson : “ Can you tell me, 
madam, what has disturbed Miss Elton ?” 

Mrs. Wilson was provoked that he did not ask what had 
disturbed her, and she determined he should not remain 
another moment without the communication, which she had 
been turning over in her mind to get it in the most efficient 
form. 

“ Oh ! Mr. Erskine,” she said, with the abject whine of a 
hypocrite ; “ oh ! my trial is more than I can endure. I 
could bear they should devour me and lay waste my dwelling- 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. . 149 

place ; I could be supported under that ; but it is a grief too 
heavy for me to reveal to you the sin, and the disgrace, and 
the abomination, of one that I have brought up as my own — 
who has fed upon my children’s bread.” 

“ Madam,” interrupted Erskine, “ you may spare yourself 
and me any more words. I ask for the cause of all this ex- 
citement ?” 

Mrs. Wilson would have replied angrily to what^she 
thought Erskine’s impertinence ; but, remembering that it 
was her business to conciliate not offend him, she, after again 
almost exhausting his patience by protestations of the hard- 
ship of being obliged to uncover the crimes of her relation, of 
the affliction she suffered in doing her duty, &c., &c., told him 
with every aggravation that emphasis and insinuation could 
lend to them, the particulars of her discovery. 

With unusual self-command he heard her through ; and 
though he was unable to account for the suspicious circum- 
stances, he spurned instinctively the conclusion Mrs. Wilson 
drew from them. 

Her astonishment, that he neither expressed horror, nor 
indignation, nor resentment towards the offender, was not at 
all abated when he only replied by a request to speak alone 
with Miss Elton. 

Mrs. Wilson thought he might intend the gathering storm 
should burst on Jane’s head ; or, perhaps, he would advise her 
to fly ; at any rate, it was not her cue, to lay a straw in his 
way at present. She even went herself and gave the request 
to Jane, adding to it a remark, that as she “was not very 
fond of keeping out of Erskine’s way, she could hardly refuse 
to come when asked.” 

“ I have no wish to refuse replied Jane, who, ashamed 
of having betrayed so much emotion, had quite recovered her 


150 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE 


self-possession, and stood calm in conscious integrity — “.But 
hear me, ma’am,” said she to her aunt, who had turned and 
was leaving the room — “ all connection between us is dis- 
solved for ever ; I shall npt remain another night beneath a 
roof where I have received little kindness, and where I now 
suffer the imputation of a crime, of which I am certain you 
do not believe me guilty.” 

Mrs. Wilson was for a moment daunted by the power of 
unquestionable innocence. — “ I know not where I shall go, I 
know not whether your persecutions will follow me ; but I am 
not friendless — nor fearful.” 

She passed by her aunt, and descended to the parlour. 
‘ No thought infirm altered her cheek;” her countenance was 
very serious, but the peace of virtue was there. Her voice 
did not falter in the least, when she said to Edward, as he 
closed the door on her entrance into the parlour — “ Mr. Ers- 
kine, you have no doubt requested to see me in the expecta- 
tion that I would contradict the statement my aunt must have 
made to you. I cannot, for it is all true.” 

Edward interrupted her — “ I do not wish it, Jane. I be- 
lieve you are perfectly innocent of that and of every other 
crime — I do not wish you even to deny it. It is all a devilish 
contrivance of that wicked woman.” 

“ You are mistaken, Edward ; it is not a contrivance ; the 
circumstances are as she has told them to you : Elvira did 
not mistake in supposing she heard me up in the night ; and 
my aunt did find my handkerchief in her desk. No, Edward : 
she is right in all but the conclusion she draws from these 
unfortunate circumstances ; perhaps,” she added after a mo- 
ment’s pause, “ a kinder judgment would not absolve me.” 

“ A saint,” replied Edward cheeringly, “ needs no absolu- 
tion. No one shall be permitted to accuse you, or suspect 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


151 


you ; you can surely explain these accidental circumstances, 
so that even your aunt, malicious — venomous as she is, will 
not dare to breathe a poisonous insinuation against you, angel 
as you are.” 

c: Ah,” replied J ane, with a sad smile, “ there are and there 
ought to be, few believers in earthborn angels. No, Mr. Ers- 
kine, I have no explanation to make : I 'have nothing but 
assertions of my innocence, and my general character to rely 
upon. Those who reject this evidence must believe me 
guilty.” 

She rose to leave the room. Erskine gently drew her 
back, and asked if it were possible she included him among 
those who could be base enough to distrust her ; and before 
she could reply he went on to a passionate declaration of his 
affections, followed by such promises of eternal truth, love, 
and fidelity, as are usual on such occasions. 

At another time, Jane would have paused to examine her 
heart, before she accepted the profession made by her lover, 
and she would have found no tenderness there that might 
not be controlled and subdued by reason. But now, driven 
out from her natural protectors by suspicion and malignant 
accusation, and touched by the confiding affection that refus- 
ed to suspect her; the generosity, the magnanimity that 
were presented in such striking contrast to the baseness of 
her relations — she received Edward’s declaration with the 
most tender and ingenuous expression of gratitude ; and 
Erskine did not doubt, nor did Jane at that moment, that 
this gratitude was firmly rooted in love. 

Edward, ardent and impetuous, proposed an immediate 
marriage : he argued, that it was the only, and would be an 
effectual, way of protecting her from the persecutions of her 
aunt. 


152 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


Jane replied, that she had very little reason to fear that 
her aunt would communicate to any other person her suspi- 
cions. “ She had a motive towards you,” she added, “ that 
overcame her prudence. I have found a refuge in your heart, 
and she cannot injure me while I have that asylum. I have 
too much pride, Edward, to involve you in the reproach I 
may have to sustain. I had formed a plan this morning, 
before your generosity translated me from despondency to 
hope, which I must adhere to, for a few months at least. An 
application has been made to me to teach some little girls 
who are not old enough for Mr. Evertson’s school : my aunt, 
as usual, put in her veto ; I had almost made up my mind 
to accept the proposal in spite of it, when the events of the 
morning came to my aid, and decided me at once, and I have 
already announced to my aunt my determination to leave her 
house. I trust that in few months something will occur, to 
put me beyond the reach of suspicion, and reward as well as 
justify your generous confidence.” 

Edward entreated — protested — argued — but all in vain ; 
he was obliged at length to resign his will to Jane’s decision. 
Edward’s next proposal was to announce the engagement 
immediately. On this he insisted so earnestly, and offered 
for it so many good reasons, that Jane consented. Mrs. 
Wilson was summoned to the parlour, and informed of the 
issue of the conference, of which she had expected so differ- 
ent a termination. She was surprised — mortified— and most 
of all, wrathful — that her impotent victim, as she deemed 
Jane, should be rescued from her grasp. She began the 
most violent threats and reproaches. Edward interrupted 
her by telling her that she dare not repeat the first, and from 
the last her niece would soon be for ever removed ; as he 
should require they should in future be perfect strangers. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


153 


Mrs. Wilson felt like a wild animal just encaged ; she might 
lash herself to fury, but v no one heeded her. 

Edward left the room, saying, that he should send his 
servant to convey Jane’s baggage wherever she would order 
it to be sent. Jane went quietly to her own apartment, 
to make the necessary arrangements ; there she soon over- 
heard the low growlings of Mrs. Wilson’s angriest voice, 
communicating, as she inferred from the loud responsive ex- 
clamations and whimpering, her engagement to Elvira. Mrs. 
Wilson’s perturbed spirit was not quieted even by this out- 
pouring; and after walking up and down, scolding at the 
servant and the children, she put on her hat and shawl, and 
sallied out to a shop, to pay a small debt she owed there. 
No passion could exclude from her mind for any length of 
time the memory of so disagreeable a circumstance as the 
necessity of# paying out money. After she had discharged 
the debt, and the master of the shop had given her the 
change, he noticed her examining one of the bills he had 
handed her with a look of scrutiny and some agitation. He 
said, u I believe that is a good bill, Mrs. Wilson ; I was a 
little suspicious of it too at first ; I took it, this morning, 
from your son David, in payment of a debt that has been 
standing more than a year. I thought myself so lucky to 
get any thing, that I was not very particular.” 

Mrs. Wilson’s particularity seemed to have a sudden 
quietus, for she pushed the bill into the full purse after the 
others, muttering something about the folly of trusting boys 
being rightly punished by the loss of the debt. 

The fact was, that Mrs. Wilson recognized this bill the 
moment she saw it, as one of the parcel she had received the 
day before, and which she had marked, at the time, for she was 
eagle-eyed in the detection of a spurious bill. There is nothing 
7 * 


154 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


more subtle, more inveterate than a habit of self-deception. It 
was not to the world alone that Mrs. Wilson played the hypo- 
crite, but before the tribunal of her own conscience she appear* 
ed with hollow arguments and false pretences. From the 
moment she had discovered her loss in the morning, she had, 
at bottom, believed David guilty ; she recollected the threats 
of the preceding day, and her first impulse was to charge 
him with the theft, and to demand the money ; but then, she 
thought, he was violent and determined, and that without 
exposing him (even Mrs. Wilson shrunk from the conse- 
quences of exposure to her son), she could not regain her 
money. She was at a loss how to account for the appearance 
of J ane’s handkerchief ; but neither that, nor J ane’s subse- 
quent emotion at the breakfast table, nor her refusal to make 
any explanation of the suspicious circumstances, enabled Mrs. 
Wilson to believe that Jane had borne any part in the dis- 
honesty of the transaction. Such was the involuntary tribute 
she paid to the tried, steadfast virtue of this excellent being. 
Still she could not restrain the whirlwind of her passion ; 
and it burst, as we have seen, upon Jane. She was at a loss 
to account for Jane’s refusal to vindicate herself. It was 
impossible for her to conceive of the reasons that controlled 
Jane. She could not see up to such an elevation. She felt 
so fearful, at first, that any investigation would lead to the 
discovery of the real criminal, that she had not communicated 
the fact of the handkerchief to any one, even to Elvira ; 
whose discretion, indeed, she never trusted ; but, after 
she found that Jane was in a dilemma, from which she 
would not extricate herself by any explanations, she thought 
herself the mistress of her niece’s fate ; and the moment she 
saw Erskine, she determined to extract good out of the evil 
that had come upon her, to dim the lustre of Jane’s good 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


155 


name, that ‘more immediate Jewel of her soul/ and thus to 
secure for her daughter the contested prize. But Mrs. Wil- 
son, it seems, was destined to experience, on this eventful day, 
how very hard is the way of the transgressor. Her niece’s 
fortunes were suddenly placed beyond her control or reach ; 
and nothing remained of all her tyranny and plots, but the 
pitiful and malignant pleasure of believing, that Jane thought 
herself in some measure in her power, though she knew that 
she was not. 

After the confirmation of her conjecture at the shop, she 
saw that secrecy was absolutely necessary ; and she was too 
discreet to indulge herself with telling Elvira any of the par- 
ticulars, about which she had been so vociferous to the young 
lovers. 

Perhaps few ladies, old or young, were ever less encum- 
bered with baggage than Jane Elton, and yet, so confused 
was she with the events of the night and morning, that the 
labour of packing up, which at another time she would have 
despatched in twenty minutes, seemed to have no more ten- 
dency to a termination than such labours usually have in 
dreams. In the midst of her perplexities one of the children 
entered and said Mr. Lloyd wished to speak to her. She 
was on the point of sending him an excuse, for she felt an 
involuntary disinclination to meet his penetrating eye at this 
moment, when recollecting how much she owed to his constant, 
tender friendship, she subdued her reluctance, and obeyed his 
summons. When she entered the room, “ I am come,” said 
he, u Jane, to ask thee to walk with me. I am an idler and 
have nothing to do, and thou art so industrious thou hast time 
to do every thing. Come, get thy hat. It is 1 treason against 
nature’ sullenly to refuse to enjoy so beautiful a day as this.” 
Jane made no reply. He saw she was agitated, and leading 


156 


A HEW ENGLAND TALE. 


her gently to a chair, said, I fear thou art not well, or, what 
is much worse, not happy.” 

Jane would have replied, 11 1 am not hut she checked 
the words, for she felt as if the sentiment they expressed, was 
a breach of fidelity to Erskine ; and instead of them she said, 
hesitatingly, “ I ought not to be perfectly happy till my best 
(I should say one of my best) friends knows and approves 
what I have done this morning.” 

u What hast thou done, Jane ?” exclaimed Mr. Lloyd, 
anticipating from her extraordinary embarrassment and 
awkwardness the communication she was about to make ; 
“ hast thou engaged thyself to Erskine ?” 

' She faltered out, “ Yes.” 

Mr. Lloyd made no reply : he rose and walked up and 
down the room, agitated, and apparently distressed. Jane 
was alarmed ; she could not account for his emotion ; she 
feared he had some ground for an ill opinion of Edward, that 
she was ignorant of. “ You do not like Edward ?” said she ; 
“you think I have done wrong?” 

The power of man is not limited in the moral as in the 
natural world. Habitual discipline had given Mr. Lloyd 
such dominion over his feelings, that he was able now to say 
to their stormy wave, 1 thus far shalt thou come, and no 
farther.’ By a strong and sudden effort he recovered himself, 
and turning to Jane, he took her hand with a benignant ex- 
pression — “ My dear Jane, thy own heart must answer that 
question. Dost thou remember a favourite stanza of thine ? 

“ Nao treasures nor pleasures 
Could make us liappy lang ; 

The heart aye’s the part aye 
That makes us right or wrang.” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


157 


J ane imagined that Mr. Lloyd felt a distrust of her mo- 
tives. “ Ah !” she replied, “the integrity of my heart will 
fail to make me happy, if I have fallen under your suspicion. 
If you knew the nobleness, the disinterestedness of Erskine’s 
conduct, you would be more just to him, and to me.” 

“ It is not being very unjust to him, or to any one, to think 
him unworthy of thee, Jane. But since these particulars 
would raise him so much in my opinion, why not tell them to 
me ? May not c one of your best friends’ claim to know, that 
which affects, so deeply, your happiness ?” 

Jane began a reply, but hesitated, and faltered out some- 
thing of its being impossible for her to display to Mr. Lloyd, 
Erskine’s generosity in the light she saw it. 

“ Dost thou mean, Jane, that the light of truth is less 
favourable to him than the light of imagination?” 

“ No,” answered Jane; “ such virtues as Edward’s, shine 
with a light of their own ; imagination cannot enhance their 
value.” 

“ Still,” said Mr. Lloyd, “ they shine but on one happy 
individual. Well, my dear Jane,” he continued, after a few 
moments’ pause, “ I will believe without seeing. I will be- 
lieve thou hast good reasons for thy faith, though they are 
incommunicable. If Erskine make thee happy, I shall be 
satisfied.” 

Happily for both parties, this very unsatisfactory confer- 
ence was broken off by the entrance of Erskine’s servant, who 
came, as he said, for Miss Elton’s baggage. Jane explained, 
as concisely as possible, to Mr. Lloyd, her plans for the 
present, and then took advantage of this opportunity to retreat 
to her own apartment, which she had no sooner entered than 
she gave way to a flood of tears, more bitter than any her 
aunt’s injustice had cost her. She had, previous to her inter- 


158 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


view with Mr. Lloyd, determined not to disclose to him, or 
Mary Hull, the disagreeable affair of the robbery. She 
wished to spare them the pain which the knowledge of a per- 
plexity from which they could not extricate her, must give to 
'them. She was sure Mary, whose discernment was very 
quick, and who knew David well, would, at once, suspect him ; 
and therefore, she thought, that in telling the story, she should 
violate the spirit of her promise ; and, at bottom, she felt a 
lurking apprehension that Mr. Lloyd might think there was 
more of gratitude than affection in her feelings to Erskine ; 
she thought it possible, too, he might not estimate Edward’s 
magnanimity quite as highly as she did ; for ci though,” she 
said, “ Mr. Lloyd has the fairest mind in the world, I think 
he has never liked Erskine. They are, certainly, very dif- 
ferent” — and she sighed as she concluded her deliberations. 

Mr. Lloyd, after remaining for a few moments in the pos- 
ture Jane had left him, returned to his own home, abstracted 
and sad. 4 The breath of Heaven smelt as wooingly,’ and the 
sun shone as brightly as before, but there was now no feeling 
of joy within to vibrate to the beauty without ; and he eer 
tainly could not be acquitted of the 1 sullen neglect of nature, 
that he had deemed treason an hour before. 

“ I knew.” thought he, 11 she was fallible, and why should I 
be surprised at her failure? It cannot be Erskine, but the 
creature of her imagination, that she loves. She is too young 
to possess the Ithuriel touch that dissolves false appearances: 
she could not detect, under so specious a garb, the vanity and 
selfishness that counterfeit manly pride and benevolence. If 
he were but worthy of her, I should be perfectly happy.” 

Mr. Lloyd mistook ; he would not, even in that case, have 
been perfectly happy. He did not, though he was very much 
of a self-examiner, clearly define all his feelings on this trying 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


159 


occasion. He had loved Jane first as a child, and then as a 
sister ; and of late he had thought if he could love another 
woman, as a wife, it would be Jane Elton. But his lost Re- 
becca was more present to his imagination than any living 
being. He had formed no project for himself in relation to 
Jane ; yet he would have felt disappointment at her appro- 
priation to any other person, though, certainly, not the sorrow 
which her engagement to Erskine occasioned him. Mr. 
Lloyd was really a disinterested man. He had so long made 
it a rule to imitate the Parent of the universe, in still educing 
good from evil, that, in every trial of his life, it was his first 
aim to ascertain his duty, and then to perform it. He could 
weave the happiness of others, though no thread of his own 
was in the fabric. In the present case, he resolved still to 
watch over Jane ; to win the friendship of Erskine, to 
endeavor to rectify his principles, to exert over him an insen- 
sible influence, and, if possible, to render him more worthy of 
his enviable destiny. 

In the course of the day, Mary Hull heard the rumours 
that had already spread through the village, of Jane’s remo- 
val o Mrs. Harvey’s, and her engagement. She ran to the 
library door, and in the fulness of her heart, forgetful of the 
decorum of knocking, she entered and found Mr. Lloyd sit- 
ting with his little girl on his knee. “ Mary, I am glad to 
see thee,” said the child ; “ I cannot get a word from father ; 
he is just as if he was asleep, only his eyes are wide open.” 

Mary, regardless of the child’s prattle, announced the 
news she had just heard. Mr. Lloyd coldly replied, that he 
knew it already ; and Mary left the room, a little hurt that 
he had not condescended to tell her, and wondering what 
made him so indifferent, and then wondering whether it was 
indifference ; but as she could not relieve her mind, she 


160 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


resolved to go immediately to Jane, with whom the habits of 
their early lives, and her continued kindness, had given and 
established the right of free intercourse. 

She found Jane alone, and not looking as happy as she 
expected. “ You have come to give me joy, Mary,” she said, 
smiling mournfully as she extended her hand to her friend. 

“ Yes,” replied Mary, “ I came with that intention, and 
you look as if joy was yet to be given. Well,” she continued 
after a pause, “ I always thought you and Mr. Lloyd were 
different from any body else in the world, but now you puzzle 
me more than ever. I expected to see your aunt Wilson look 
grum — that’s natural to her, when any gopd befalls any one 
else ; and Elvira, who every body knows has been setting her 
cap every way for Erskine, ever since she was old enough to 
think of a husband : she has a right to have her eyes as red 
as a ferret’s. But there is Mr. Lloyd, looking as sorrowful 
as if he had seen some great trouble, and could not relieve it ; 
and you, my dear child, I have seen you pass through many 
a dark passage of your life with a happier face than you wear 
now, when you are going to have the pride of the county for 
your husband, to be mistress of the beautiful house on the 
hill, and have every thing heart can desire.” 

J ane made no explanation nor reply, and after a few mo- 
ments’ consideration Mary proceeded — ■“ To be sure, I could 
wish Erskine was more like Mr. Lloyd : but then he is six or 
eight years younger than Mr. Lloyd, and in that time, with 
your tutoring, you may make him a good deal like Mr. Lloyd 
(Mr. Lloyd was Mary’s beau-ideal of a man) ; that is, if your 
endeavours are blessed. It is true, I always thought you 
would not marry any man that was not religious ; not but 
what ’tis allowable, for even professors do it ; but then, Jane, 
you are more particular and consistent than a great many 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


161 


professors ; and, I know, yon tliink there is nothing binds 
hearts together like religion — that bond endures where there 
is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.” 

Poor Jane had listened to Mary’s pros and cons with con- 
siderable calmness; but now she laid her head in her 
friend’s lap, and gave vent to the feelings she had been all 
day arguing down, by a flood of tears. “ Ah ! my dear Jane, 
is it there the shoe pinches? I an’t sorry to find you have 
thought of it though. If the ‘ candle of the Lord’ is lighted 
up in the heart, we ought to look at every thing by that light. 
But now you have decided, turn to the bright side. I don’t 
know much about Mr. Erskine ; he is called a nice young 
man, and who knows what he may become, when he sees how 
good and how beautiful it is to have the whole heart and life 
ordered and governed by the Christian rule. I often think to 
myself, Jane, that your life, and Mr. Lloyd’s too, are better 
than preaching. Don’t take on so, my child,” she continued, 
soothingly ; “ you have Scripture for you ; for the Bible says, 
‘the believing wife may sanctify the unbelieving husband ;’ 
and that must mean that her counsel and example shall win 
him back to the right way, and persuade him to walk in the 
paths of holiness. Cheer up, my child, there is good mission- 
ary work before you ; and I feel as if you had many happy 
days to come yet. Those that sow in tears, shall reap with 
joy. It is a load off my mind, at any rate, that you are away 
from your aunt’s, and under good Mrs. Harvey’s roof. I 
stopped at your aunt’s on my way here, and she raised a hue 
and cry about your leaving her house so suddenly ; she said, 
your grand fortune had turned your head ; ‘ she was not dis- 
appointed, she had never expected any gratitude from you ! 
but ’twas not for worldly hire she did her duty !’ Poor, 
poor soul ! I would not judge her uncharitably ; but I do 


162 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


believe she has the 1 hope that will perish.’ I just took no 
notice of her, and came away. As I was passing through the 
kitchen, Sukey says to me, ‘ Mrs Wilson may look out for 
other help , for now Miss Jane is gone out from us, I shan’t 
stay to hear nothing but disputings, and scoldings, and 
prayers.’ 1 But,’ says I, £ Sukey, you don’t object to the prayers V 
‘ Yes,’ says she, ‘ I don’t like lip prayers — it is nothing but a 
mockery.’ ” 

“ Sukey has too much reason,” replied J ane. “ But now, 
Mary, you must not think from what you have seen that I am 
not happy, for I have reason to be grateful, and I ought to be 
very, very happy.” 

‘ Ought', thought Mary, £ she may be contented, and 
resigned, and even cheerful, because she ought — but happiness 
is not duty-work.’ However, she had discretion enough to 
suppress her homely metaphysics ; and patting Jane’s head 
affectionately, she replied, “ Yes, my child, and if you wish it, 
I will set these tears down for tears of joy, not sorrow.” 
Jane smiled at her friend’s unwonted sophistry, and they 
parted : Mary, confirmed in a favourite notion, that every 
allotment of Providence is designed as a trial for the char- 
acter ; that all will finally work together for good ; and that 
Jane was going on in the path to perfection, which, though 
no Methodist, she was not (in her partial friend’s opinion), 
far from attaining. Jane was very much relieved by Mary’s 
wise suggestions and sincere sympathy. 

A sagacious observer of human nature and fortunes has 
said, that “ if there were more knowledge, there would be 
less envy.” The history of our heroine is a striking exem- 
plification of the truth of this remark : when all was darkness 
without, she had been looked upon by the compassionate as 
an object of pity, for they could not see the sunshine of the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


163 


breast ; and now that she was considered as the chief favourite 
of the fickle goddess, there was not one that would have envied 
her, if the internal conflict she suffered — if that most un- 
pleasant of all feelings, disagreement with herself, had been 
as visible as her external fortunes were. 

Erskine was in too good humour with himself, and with 
Jane, to find fault with any thing : yet he certainly was a 
little disappointed, that in spite of his earnest persuasions to 
the contrary, she firmly persisted in the plan of the school ; 
and we fear he was surprised, perhaps slightly mortified, that 
she showed no more joy at having secured a hand and a sta- 
tion, to which he knew so many had aspired. 


164 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


CHAPTER XII. 


The world is still deceived with ornament. 

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, 

But, being season’d with a gracious voice, 
Obscures the show of evil ? 

Merchant of Venice. 


J ane entered upon the duties of her new vocation with more 
energy and interest than could have been reasonably expected 
from a young lady who had so recently entered into an 
engagement of marriage, and one which opened upon her the 
most flattering prospects. She already felt the benefits result- 
ing from the severe discipline she had suffered in her aunt’s 
family. She had a rare habit of putting self aside ; of defer- 
ring her own inclinations to the will, and interests, and 
inclinations of others. A superficial survey of the human mind 
in all its diversity of conditions, will convince us that it may 
be trained to any thing ; else, how shall we account for the 
proud exultation of a savage amidst the cruellest tortures his 
triumphant enemy can inflict ; or for any of the wonderful 
phenomena of enterprise, of fortitude, of patience, in beings 
whose physical natures are so constituted, that they instinc- 
tively shrink from suffering ? 

Our fair young readers (if any of that class condescend 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


165 


to read this unromantic tale) will smile at the idea that Jane 
had any farther occasion for the virtues of adversity ; but 
she was far from being happy ; she had not that firm confi- 
dence in the character of her lover that could alone have 
inspired the joy of hope, and secured a quiet spirit. Since 
her engagement, and even before, and ever since she had 
been interested in Erskine, she had not dared to sound the 
depths of her heart. Though quite a novice in the experi- 
ence of love, she would have been able to detect its subtle- 
ties ; she would have been able to ascertain the nature, and 
amount of her affection for Erskine, had she not been driven 
by his apparent magnanimity, and the oppression of her rela- 
tions, to a sudden decision. We appeal then once more to 
our fair young readers, and trust their justice will award to 
our heroine some praise, for her spirited and patient per- 
formance of her duties to her young pupils, who were very 
far from imagining that their kind and gentle teacher had 
any thing in the world to trouble her, or to engage her mind, 
but their wants and pursuits. 

Her disquietude did not escape the quickened vision of 
her vigilant friend Mr. Lloyd ; he observed the shadows of 
anxiety settling on her usually bright and cheerful counte- 
nance, but even he had no conception of the extent of her 
busy apprehensions and secret misgivings. 

Week after week passed away, and there seemed to be no 
prospect that any thing would occur to free J ane from the 
very unpleasant situation in which her aunt’s accusations had 
placed her. Erskine became restless and impatient, derided 
all Jane’s arguments in favor of delaying their marriage, and 
finally affected to distrust her affection for him. If the un- 
defined, and undefinable sentiment which was compounded 
in Jane’s heart of youthful preference and gratitude, was not 


166 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


love, Jane believed it was, and sbe at last yielded a reluctant 
consent, that the marriage should take place at the end of 
three months, even though nothing should occur to release 
her from her aunt’s power. 

It was a few days after this promise had been given, that 
as she was one day returning from her school, Erskine joined 
her. — “Your friend Robert Lloyd,” said he, “ has taken a 
mighty fancy to me of late — I cannot conceive what is the 
reason of it.” 

Jane blushed, for she thought he might have guessed the 
reason. “ I am glad of it,” she replied, “ for he seems to 
have withdrawn from me, and you are the only person, Ed- 
ward, to whom I should be willing to relinquish any portion 
of Mr. Lloyd’s regard.” 

“ Ah, Jane ! you need not be alarmed ; he and I should 
never mix, any more than oil and vinegar.” 

“ I am sorry for that ; but which is the oil, and which is 
the vinegar ?” 

“ Oh, he is the oil, soft — neutralizing — rather tasteless ; 
while I, you know, have a character of my own — am positive 
— am — but perhaps it would not be quite modest for me to 
finish the parallel. To confess the truth to you, Jane, I 
have always had an aversion to Quakers ; they are a very 
hypocritical sect, depend upon it ; pretending, sly, avaricious, 
cheating rogues.” 

“ That’s a harsh judgment,” replied Jane, with some 
warmth, “ and a prejudice, I think : is not Mr. Lloyd the 
only Quaker you know ?” 

“ Why — ye — yes, the only one I know much of.” 

“ And does he justify your opinion ?” 

“ I don’t know : it takes a great while to find them out ; 
and even if Lloyd should be what he would seem, the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


167 


exception only proves the rule. I have always disliked 
Quakers. I remember a story my father used to tell, when I 
was a child, about his being overreached in a most ingenious, 
practised manner, by one of the sly-boots, as he called the 
whole race. It was not an affair of any great moment ; but 
l no man likes to be outwitted in a bargain, and my father 
used to say it gave him an antipathy to the very name of 
a Quaker.” 

“ 1 your father was in fault,” replied Jane, “ so 

carelessly to implant a prejudice, which, as it seems to have 
had very slight ground, I trust has not taken such deep root 
that it cannot he eradicated.” 

“ There is more reason in my judgment than you give me 
credit for,” replied Edward pettishly. “ If they are an up- 
right, frank people, why is the world kept in ignorance of 
their belief? The Quakers have no creed ; and though I have 
no great faith in the professors of any sect, yet they ought to 
let you know what they do think ; it is fair and above board. 
You may depend upon it, Jane, the Quakers are a jesuitical 
people.” 

“ Have you ever read any of their books ?” inquired Jane. 

“ I read them !” he replied, laughing ; “ why, my dear 
girl, do you take me for a theologian? No — I never read 
the books of any sect ; and Quaker books, I believe there are 
not. Quaker books!” he continued, still laughing, “ no, no 
— I shall never addict myself to divinity, till Ann RatcKffe 
writes sermons, and Tom Moore warbles hymns.” 

Jane did not join in his laugh’; but replied, “ There is a 
book, Edward, that contains the creed of the Quakers : a 
creed to which they have never presumed to add any thing, 
nor have they taken any thing from it ; the only creed . to 
which they think it right to require the assent of man, and 


168 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


from which no rational man can dissent — that book is tJte 
Bible ! and,” she continued, earnestly, “ their faith in this 
creed is shown by their works. My dear Edward, examine 
their history for their vindication.” 

“ That I need not, while their cause has so fair a cham- 
pion.” 

11 Spare me your sarcasms, Edward, and let me entreat 
you to look at the life of their wise and excellent Penn. See 
him patiently and firmly enduring persecution, and calumny, 
and oppression at home ; giving up his time, his fortune, liis 
liberty, to the cause of suffering humanity, in every mode of 
its appeal to his benevolence. Follow him with his colony 
to the wilderness, and see him the only one of all the colo- 
nial leaders, (I grieve that I cannot except our fathers, the 
pilgrims)* the only one who treated the natives of the land 
with justice and mercy. Our fathers, Edward, refused to 
acknowledge the image of God in the poor Indian. They 
affected to believe they were the children of the evil one, 
and hunted them like beasts of prey, calling them { worse 
than Scythian wolves ;* while Penn, and his peaceful people, 
won their confidence, their devotion, by treating them with 
even-handed justice, with brotherly kindness ; and they had 
their reward ; they lived unharmed among them, without 

* Since this edition was put to press, a friend has been good enough to 
furnish us with the following correction of a mistake, for which we are much 
indebted to him, and which we gladly insert. 

“ The assertion, that Penn was the only one of the colonial leaders, who 
treated the natives with justice and mercy, should be qualified. The lands of 
the natives were not seized, but purchased in every part of New-England, 
and, I believe, on more favorable terms here than in Pennsylvania. The 
greatest part of our colonial leaders treated the natives with mercy ; in par- 
ticular Winthrop, Winslow, and Bradford, but above all, Thomas Mayhew 
and Roger Williams. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


169 


forts, without a weapon of defence. Is it not the Friends that 
have been foremost and most active in efforts for the abolition 
of slavery ? Among what people do we find most reformers 
of the prisons — guardians of the poor and the oppressed — 
most of those who 1 remember the forgotten, and attend to 
the neglected — who dive into the depths of dungeons, and 
plunge into the infection of hospitals V ” 

There was a mingled expression of archness and admira- 
tion in Edward’s smile as he replied, “ My dear Jane, you 
are almost fit to speak in meeting. All that your defence 
wants in justness, is made up by the eloquence of your eye 
and your glowing cheek. I think friendship is a stronger 
feeling in your heart than love, Jane,” he continued, with a 
penetrating look that certainly did not abate the carnation ol 
her cheek. u If I, and all my ancestors had gone on crusades 
'and pilgrimages, the spirit would not have moved you to 
such enthusiasm in our cause, as you manifest for the broad- 
brimmed, straight-coated brethren of friend Lloyd" 

Edward, have you yet to learn of me, that I speak least 
of what I feel most V 1 

The gentleness of Jane’s manner, and the tenderness of 
her voice, soothed her lover ; and he replied, “ Forgive me, 
dear Jane, a little jealousy ; you know jealousy argues love. 
To confess to you the honest truth, I felt a little more tick- 
lish than usual, this evening, on the subject of quakerism. I 
had just parted with Mr. Lloyd ; and he has been earnestly 
recommending to me, to undertake a reform in our poor- 
laws, by which he thinks, that we should rid ourselves of the 
burden of supporting many who are not necessarily depend- 
ent on us, and improve the condition of those who are. The 
plan seems to me to be good and feasible.” 

« And what then, Edward, provoked your displeasure 

8 


170 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


u Why, he wished me to take the whole conduct of it. 
He preferred that the plan should appear to originate with 
me ; that I should head a petition to the Legislature ; and 
if we succeeded, that I shall superintend the execution of 
the plan.” 

“ Still, dear Edward, I see any thing but offence in all 
this.” 

“ Because your eye-sight is a little dimmed by your par- 
tiality. Do you believe, Jane, that any man would be willing 
to transfer to another all the merit and praise of a scheme, 
which, if it succeed, will be a most important benefit to the 
community ; will be felt, and noticed, and applauded by 
everybody? No — there is some design lurking under this 
specious garb of disinterestedness — disinterestedness ! it 
only exists in the visions of poets, or the Utopian dreams of 
youth-; or, perhaps, embodied in the fine person of a hero of 
romance.” 

Oh ! my dear Edward, it does exist ; it is the principle, 
the spirit of the Christian !” 

K For example — of your aunt Wilson, and of sundry other 
stanch professors I could mention, who, 

“ ‘ If self the wavering balance shake, 

It’s never right adjusted.’ ” 

“ Is it fair,” replied Jane, “ to condemn a whole class be- 
cause some of its members are faithless and disloyal? A 
commander does but decimate a mutinous corps ; and you 
exclude the whole from your confidence, because a few are 
treacherous. I allow,” continued Jane, u there are a few, 
very few, who are perfectly disinterested ; but every Chris- 
tian, in proportion to his fidelity to the teachings and exam- 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


171 


pie of Lis Master, will be moved and governed by this prin- 
ciple.” 

Perhaps Edward felt a passing conviction of the truth of 
J ane’s assertions ; at any rate, he made no reply, and after- 
wards he shunned the subject; and even Jane seemed to 
shrink from it as one upon which they had no common 
feeling. 

The day before entering on the duties of her second 
school-term, Jane determined to indulge herself in a solitary 
walk to the cottage of old John of the Mountain. She had 
purchased some cgmforts for the old people, with a part of 
her small earnings, and she knew if she carried them herself 
she should double their value. She found the way without 
difficulty, for her night-walk had indelibly impressed it on 
her memory. On her approach to the cottage, and as she 
emerged from the wood, she perceived just on its verge a 
slight rising in the form of a grave ; a wild rose-bush grew 
beside it. Jane paused for a moment, and plucking one of 
the flowers, she said, “ fragrant and transient, thou art a fit 
emblem of the blasted flower below !” As she turned from 
the grave, she perceived that a magical change had been 
wrought upon John’s hut. Instead of a scarcely habitable 
dwelling, of decayed logs, filled in with mud, she saw a neat 
little framed house, with a fence around it, and a small gar- 
den annexed to it, inclosed with a post and rail fence of neat 
construction. Jane hastened forward, and entered the cot- 
tage with the light step of one who goes on an errand of 
kindness. 

“ Who would have thought,” said the good dame, as she 
dusted a chair and handed it to Jane, “of your coming all 
this way to see whether we were above ground yet ?” 

“Ah,” said John, 1 there are some in this world, a pre- 


172 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


cious few, who remember those that every body else for- 
gets.” 

“ I could not forget you, my good friends,” replied Jane, 
“ though John does not come any more to put me in mind of 
you.” 

“ Why, Miss Jane,” said John, “I grow old. and I have 
been but twice to the village since that mournful night you 
was here, and then I was in such a worrying matter that I 
did not think even of you.” 

“ What have you had to disturb you ?” inquired Jane. 
“ I hoped from finding you in this nice ney house that all had 
gone well since I saw you.” 

“ Ah,” replied J ohn, “ I have been greatly favoured ; but 
the storm came before the calm. Miss Jane, did you never 
hear of my law-suit ? the whole town was alive with it.” 

Jane assured John that she had never heard a word of it; 
that she had a little school to take care of ; and that she saw 
very few persons, and. heard little village news, even when it 
was as important as his law-suit. 

“ Then, Miss Jane,” said John, “if you have time and 
patience to hear an old man’s story, I will tell you mine. 
It is fifty years since my old woman and I settled down in 
these woods. Like all our fellow-creatures, we have had our 
portion of storms and sunshine : it has pleased the Lord to 
lop off all our branches, to cut down the little saplings 
that grew up at our feet, and leave us two lonely and bare 
trunks, to feel, and resist the winds of heaven as we may : 
two old evergreens,” he continued, with a melancholy smile, 
“ that flourish when every thing has faded about them. Yes, 
fifty years I have seen the sun come over that mountain 
every morning ; and there is not a tree in all these thick 
woods but it seems like an old friend to me. Here my sons 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


173 


and daughters have been born to me, and here I have buried 
them, all but poor Jem, who you know was lost at sea. They 
die'd when they were but little children, and nobody remem- 
bers them but us ; but they are as fresh in our minds as if it 
was but yesterday they were playing about us, with their 
laughing eyes and rosy cheeks. This has not much to do 
with my lawsuit,” continued John, after a pause, and clear- 
ing his voice, u only that I shall want some excuse for loving 
the old spot so well before I get through with my story. I 
hired this bit of land of a man that’s been dead twenty years, 
and it has changed hands many a time since, but I have 
always been able to satisfy for the rent ; it was but a trifle, 
for no one but I would fancy the place. Lately it’s come 
into the hands of the two young Woodhulls, by the death of 
the Deacon their father. They are two hard-favoured, hard- 
hearted, wild young chaps, Miss Jane, that think all the 
world was made for them, and their pleasure. If my memory 
serves me, it was just one week after you was here, that they 
were up hunting in these woods with young Squire Erskine. 
John, the eldest, took aim at a robin that was singing on the 
tree just before my door : it had built its nest there early in 
the summer : we had fed it with crumbs from our table, and 
it was as tame as a chicken. I told this to them, and begged 
the little innocent’s life so earnestly, that the boys laughed, 
but Erskine said, 1 Let the old man have his way.’ They 
said it was nonsense to give up to my whims, and told me to 
take away my hand, (for I had raised it up to protect the 
nest,) or they would fire through it. I did take it away, and 
the nest with it, and brought it into the house. They 
came swearing in, and demanded the bird. I refused to giye 
it up ; they grew more and more angry : may be Erskine 
might have brought them to reason, but he had walked away. 


174 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


They said it was their land, and their bird, and they would 
not be thwarted by me ; and they called me, and my wife too, 
many a name that was too bad for a decent person’s ear. 
They worked themselves up to a fury, and then warned me 
off the ground. I made no reply ; for I thought when they 
got over their passion they’d forget it. But they returned 
the next day with handspikes, and threatened to pull the 
house down on our heads, if we did not come out of it. I 
I have had a proud spirit in my day, Miss J ane, but old age 
and weakness have tamed it. I begged them to spare us our 
little dwelling, with tears in my eyes ; and my poor old 
woman prayed she might bring out the few goods we had ; 
but oh ! ‘ a fool in his folly is like a bear robbed of her 
whelps.’ They said they would dust our goods for us ; and 
so we came out and turned away our faces ; but we heard the 
old house that had sheltered us so long crumble to pieces, as 
you would crush an egg-shell in your hand ; yes, and we 
heard their loud deriding laugh ; but thank the Lord, we 
were too far off, to hear the jokes they passed between every 
peal of laughter. Ah, there is more hope of any thing than of 
a hard heart in a young body.” 

“ Can it be possible,” interrupted Jane, “that for so slight 
a cause the W oodhulls could do you such an injury ?” 

“ It is even so,” replied John ; “youth is headstrong, and 
will not bear crossing.” 

“T3ut where did you find a shelter?” 

“ I led my wife down the other side of the mountain, to 
one Billy Downie’s, a soft feeling creature, who has more 
goodness in his heart than wit in his head, and he made us 
kindly welcome. I left my wife there, and the next day I 
came over to the village, to see if the law would give me 
justice of those that had no mercy. I should have gone to 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


175 


S pire Erskine with my case, for I knew he was called a fine 
pleader, though he is too wordy to suit me — hut he was a 
friend of the Woodhulls, and so I applied to the stranger 
that’s lately moved in : heproved a raw hand. The trial was 
appointed for the next Saturday. The day came ; and all 
the men in the village were collected at the tavern, for Ers- 
kine was to plead for the Woodhulls, and every body likes to 
hear his silver tongue.” 

“ Erskine plead for the Woodhulls !” exclaimed Jane. 

“ Oh yes, Miss Jane ; for, as I told you, they are very 
thick. My attorney was a kind of a ’prentice-workman at 
the? aw; he was afraid of Erskine too; and he stammered, 
and said one thing and meant another, and made such a jingle 
of it, I could not wonder the justice and the people did not 
think I had a good claim for damages. But still, the plain 
story was so much against the Woodhulls, and the people of 
the village are so friendly-like to me, that it is rather my 
belief I should have been righted, if Erskine had not poured 
out such a power of words, that he seemed to take away 
people’s senses. He started with what he called a proverb of 
the law, and repeated it so many times, I think I can never 
forget it, for it seemed to be the hook he hung all his argu- 
fying upon. It was 1 cujus est solum , ejus est usque ad cae- 
lum ,’ (we have taken the liberty slightly to correct the old 
man’s quotation of the Latin;) which, if I rightly understood 
it, means, that whoever owns the soil, owns all above it to the 
sky ; and though it stands to reason it can’t be so, yet Ers- 
kine’s fine oration put reason quite out of the question ; and 
so the justice decided that the Woodhulls had a right to do 
what seemed good in their own eyes with my furniture ; and 
then he gave me a bit of an exhortation, and told me I should 
never make out well in the world, if I did not know more of 


176 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE, 


the laws of the land ! and concluded with saying, I ought to 
be very thankful I had so little to be destroyed. I said 
nothing ; but I thought it was late in the day for me to study 
the laws of the land ; and my mite was as much to me as his 
abundance to him. When the trial was over. Erskine and 
the Woodhulls invited the justice and the company in the 
bar-room to treat them ; and through the open door I heard 
Erskine propose a bumper to those who knew how to main- 
tain their rights. “No,” Woodhull said, “it should be to 
him who knew how to defend a friend” — right or wrong, 
thought I. But,” said John, pausing, “my story is too long 
for you Miss Jane.” 

Jane had turned away her head; she now assured John 
she was listening to every word he said, and begged him to 
go on. 

“ W ell, miss, I thought I was alone in the room, and I 
just let out my heart, as you know a body will when he thinks 
there is no eye but His that’s above, sees him. I saw noth- 
ing before Sarah and I, but to go upon the town, and that’s 
what I always had a dread of ; for, though I have been a 
poor man all my life, Miss Jane, what I had was my own. I 
have been but weakly since I was a boy, but my woman and 
I have been sober and industrious. We have always had a 
shelter for ourselves ; and sometimes, too, for a poor house- 
less creature that had not a better ; and we wanted but little, 
and we were independent : and then you know, what the town 
gives is neither given or taken with a good will. Well, as I 
said, I thought I was alone in the room ; but I heard a slight 
noise behind me, and there was one who had not followed the 
multitude ; he had a clear open face, and that look — I can’t 
justly describe it, Miss Jane, but it seems as if it was the 
light of good deeds sent back again ; or, may be, the seal the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


177 


Lord puts upon his own children — and pity and kindness 
seemed writ in every line of his face. Do you know who I 
mean ?” 

“ Mr. Lloyd,” she replied, in a scarcely audible voice. 

“ Yes, yes — any body that had ever seen him would guess. 
He beckoned to me to shut the door, and asked me if I had 
any particular attachment to this spot ; and I owned to him, 
as I have to you, my childishness about it ; and he smiled, 
and said he was afraid I was too old to be cured of it ; and 
then asked, if I believed I could persuade the young men to 
sell as much of the land as I should want. I was sure I could, 
for I know they are wasteful and ravenous for money, and be- 
sides they had had their own will, and the land was of no use 
to them. And then he told me, Miss Jane, that he would give 
me the money for the land, if I could make a bargain with the 
Woodhulls, and enough besides to build me a comfortable little 
house. I could not thank him — I tried, but' I could not ; and so 
he just squeezed my hand and said, he understood me — arid 
charged me to keep it a secret where I got help ; and I have 
minded him till this day, but I could not keep it from you.” 

“ You’d better stop now, John,” said the old woman, “for 
the long walk, and the long story, have quite overdone Miss 
Jane ; she looks tired out, and pale and red in a minute.” 

Jane was obliged to own she did not feel well ; but after 
drinking some water, she made an effort to compose herself, 
and asked the old man, “ What reason he had to think the 
Woodhulls and Erskine were intimate friends?”. 

u Why, did you never hear, miss, that it was Erskine that 
got John W oodhull clear when Betsy Davis sued him for 
breach of promise ? I was summoned to court as a witness. 
It was a terrible black business ; but Erskine made it all 
smooth ; and after the trial was past, I overheard these chaps 
8 * 


178 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


flattering Erskine till they made him believe he was more 
than mortal. At any rate, they put such a mist before his 
eyes, that he could not see to choose good from evil, else he 
never would have chosen them for his companions ; he never 
would have been led to spend night after night with them at 
the gambling club.” 

u At the gambling club, J ohn ! — where — what do you 
mean?” and poor Jane clasped her hands together, and looked 
at him with an expression of such wretchedness, that the old 
man turned his eyes from her to his wife and back again to 
Jane, as if he would, but durst not, inquire the reason of her 
emotion. 

“ I have done wrong,” he stammered out, u old fool that I 
was. Erskine is your friend , Miss Jane. The Lord forgive 
me,” he added, rising and walking to the door. Jane had 
risen also, and with a trembling hand was tying on her hat. 
“ And the Lord help thee, child,” he continued, turning again 
towards her, u and keep thee from every snare. Well, well ! — 
I never should have thought it.” 

J ane felt humbled by the old man’s sympathy ; and yet 
it was too sincere, too kindly felt, to be repressed. She was 
hastening away, when Sarah said, “You have forgotten your 
bundle, miss.” 

“ It is for you, my good friend,” she replied ; and, with- 
out awaiting their thanks, she bade them farewell, and was 
soon out of sight of the old man, whose eye followed her quick 
footsteps till she was hid by the adjoining wood. He then 
turned from the door, and raised his hands and his faded eyes, 
glistening with the gathering tears, to Heaven — “ Oh Lord !” 
he exclaimed, “ have mercy on thy young servant. Suffer 
not this child of light to be yoked to a child of darkness.” 

We believe that, in all classes and conditions, women are 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


179 


more inclined than men to look on the bright side of mar- 
riage. In this case Sarah, after a little consideration, said, 
u I’m thinking, John, you take on too much ; you are borrow- 
ing trouble for Miss Jane. She is a wise, discreet young 
body, and she may cure Mr. Erskine of his faults. Besides, 
if he does go astray a little, that’s no uncommon thing for a 
young man ; he is not wicked and hard-hearted like the 
Woodhulls.” 

* No, no, Sarah, he an’t so bad as the Woodhulls, but he 
has been a spoilt child from the beginning : he is a comely 
man to look to, and he has a glib tongue in his head ; but he 
is all for self — all for self, Sarah. You might as well under- 
take to make the stiff branches of that old oak tender and 
pliable as the sprouts of the sapling that grows beside it, as 
to expect Miss Jane can alter Erskine. No — He alone can 
do it with whom all things are possible. We have no right 
to expect a miracle. She has no call to walk upon the sea, 
and we cannot hope a hand will be stretched out to keep her 
from sinking. It is the girl’s beauty has caught him ; and 
when that is gone, and it is a quickly fading flower, she will 
have no hold whatever on him.” 

We know not how long the old man indulged in his reflec- 
tions, for he was not again interrupted by Sarah, whose 
deference for her husband’s superior sagacity seems to have 
been more habitual than even her namesake’s of old. 

Our unhappy heroine pursued her way home, her mind 
filled with 4 thick coming’ and bitter fancies, revolving over 
and over again the circumstances of John’s narrative. He 
had thrown a new light on the character of her lover ; and she 
blamed herself, that faults had seemed so dim to her, which 
were now so glaring. She was not far from coming to the 
result, which, we trust, our readers have expected from the 


180 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


integrity and purity of her character. “ If I had remained 
ignorant of his faults,” she thought, “ I should have had some 
excuse : I might then have hoped for assistance and blessing 
in my attempts to reform him. It would be presumption to 
trust, now, in any efforts I could make ; and what right have 
I, with my eyes open, to rush into a situation where my own 
weak virtues may be subdued by trials must te as- 

sailed by temptation 1 Oh ! when I heard him speak lightly 
of religion, how could I hope he would submit to its requisi- 
tions and restraints ? I started at the first thought, that he 
was unprincipled ; and yet I have always known there was 
no immovable basis for principle, but religion. Selfish — 
vain — how could I love him ? And yet — and she looked at 
the other side of the picture — his preference of me was purely 
disinterested — an orphan — destitute — almost an outcast — 
liable to degradation — and he has exposed himself to all the 
obloquy I may suffer — and does he not deserve the devotion 
of my life ?” A moment before, she would have answered 
her self-interrogation in the negative ; but now she seemed 
losing herself in a labyrinth of opposing duties. She thought 
that she ought not to place implicit reliance in John’s state- 
ments. He might have exaggerated Erskine’s faults. In 
his situation, it was natural he should ; but he had such a 
calm, sober way with him, every word bore the impress of 
truth. The story of the gambling club had turned the scale ; 
but John might have been misinformed. 

Thus, after all her deliberations, Jane re-entered her home 
without having come to any decision. Though we believe 
the opinion of a great moralist is against us, we doubt if 
“ decision of character” belongs to the most scrupulously vir- 
tuous. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


181 


CHAPTER XIII. 

It is religion that doth make vows kept, 

But thou hast sworn against religion ; 

Therefore, thy latter vow against thy first 
Is in thyself rebellion to thyself : 

And better conquest never canst thou make 
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts 
Against these busy loose suggestions. 

King John. 

As Jane entered Mrs. Harvey’s door, she met her kind hos- 
tess just returning from a walk, her face flushed with recent 
pleasure. “ Where upon earth have you been ?” she exclaimed. 
“ Ah ! if you had gone with me, you would not have come 
home with such a wo-begone face. Not a word! Well — 
nothing for nothing is my rule, my dear ; and so you need 
not expect to hear where I have been, and what superb papers 
have come from New York, for the front rooms ; and beautiful 
china, and chairs, and carpets, and a fine work-table, for an 
industrious little lady, that shall be nameless ; all quite too 
grand for a sullen, silent, deaf and dumb school-mistress.” 
She added, playfully, u If our cousin Elvira had been out in 
such a shower of gold, we should have been favoured with 
sweet smiles and sweet talk for one year at least. But there 
comes he that will make the bird sing, when it won’t sing to 


182 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


any one else : and so my dear, to escape chilling a lover’s 
atmosphere, or being melted in it, I shall make my escape.” 

Jane would gladly have followed her, but she sat still, 
after hastily throwing aside her hat, and seizing the first 
book that she could lay her hands upon, to shelter her em- 
barrassment. She sat with her back to the door. 

Edward entered, and walking up to her, looked over her 
shoulder as if to see what book had so riveted her attention. 
It chanced to be Penn’s “ Fruits of Solitude.” “ Curse on all 
Quakers and quakerism !” said he, seizing the book rudely 
and throwing it across the room ; “ wherever I go, I am 
crossed by them.” 

He walked about, perturbed and angry. Jane rose to 
leave him, for now, she thought, was not the time to come to 
an explanation ; but Erskine was not in a humour to be 
opposed in any thing. He placed his back against the door, 
and said, “No, Jane, you shall not leave me now. I have 
much to tell you. Forgive my violence. There is a point 
beyond which no rational creature can keep his temper. I 
have been urged to that point ; and, thank Heaven, I have 
not learnt that smooth-faced hypocrisy that can seem what 
it is not.” 

. Jane trembled excessively. Erskine had touched the 
1 electric chain she sunk into a chair, and burst into tears. 

“ I was right,” he exclaimed ; “ it is by your authority, 
and at your instigation, that I am dogged from place to 
place by that impertinent fellow ; you have entered into a 
holy league ; but know, Miss Elton, there is a tradition in 
our family, that no Erskine was ever ruled by his wife ; and 
the sooner the lady who is destined to be mine learns not to 
interfere in my affairs, the more agreeable it will be to me, 
and the more safe for herself.” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


183 


J ane’s indignation was roused by this strange attack ; and 
resuming her composure, she said, “ If you mean that I shall 
understand you, you must explain yourself, for I am ignorant 
and innocent of any thing you may suspect me of.” 

“ Thank heaven !” replied Erskine, “ I believe you, Jane ; 
you know in the worst of times I have believed you ; and it 
was natural to be offended that you should distrust me. You 
shall know the 1 head and front of my offending.’ The sins 
that have stirred up such a missionary zeal in that Quaker 
saint, will weigh very light in the scales of love.” 

11 Perhaps,” said J ane gravely, “ I hold a more impartial 
balance than you expect.” 

il Then you do not love me, Jane, for love is, and ought to 
be. blind ; but I am willing to make the trial ; I will never 
have it repeated to me, that * if you knew all, you would with- 
draw your affections from me.’ No one shall say that you 
have not loved me, with all my youthful follies on my head. 
I know you are a little puritanical ; but that is natural to 
one who has had so much to make her miserable ; the un- 
happy are driven to religion. But you are young and cura- 
ble, if you can be rescued from this Quaker influence.” 

Edward still rattled on, and seemed a little to dread mak- 
ing the promised communication ; but at last, inferring from 

v 

Jane’s seriousness that she was anxious, and impatient him- 
self to have it over, he went on to tell her — that from the 
beginning of their engagement, Mr. Lloyd had undertaken 
the surveillance of his morals ; that certainly he had been 
very civil to him, and possibly, if he had not been fortified by 
his antipathy to Quakers, he should have surrendered his con 
fidence^fo him. 

u No gentleman,” he said, 11 no man of honourable feeling 
— no man of proper sensibility — would submit to the interfe- 


184 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


rence of a stranger — a man not much older than himself — in 
matters that concerned himself alone ; it was an intolerable 
outrage. If Jane were capable of a fair judgment, she would 
allow that it was so.” 

Jane mildly replied, that she could only judge from the 
facts ; as yet she had heard nothing but invectives. Erskine 
said, he had imagined he was stating his case in a vSourt of 
love, and not of law ; but he had no objection, since his judge 
was as sternly just as an old Roman father, to state facts. 
He could pardon Mr. Lloyd his eagerness to make him adopt 
his plans of improvement in the natural and moral world : to 
the first he might have been led by his taste for agriculture, 
(which he believed was unaffected,) and to the second he was 
pledged by the laws of meddling quakerism. Still he said 
none but a Quaker would have thought of prying into the 
affairs of people who were strangers to him — however, that 
might be pardoned ; as he said before, he supposed every 
Quaker was bound to ‘bear his testimony,’ that he believed 
was their cant term for their impertinence. “ But, my sweet 
judge, you do not look propitious,” Erskine continued after 
this misty preamble, from wfiich Jane could gather nothing 
but that his prejudices and pride had thrown a dark shadow 
over all the virtues of Mr. Lloyd. 

“ I cannot, Erskine, look propitious on your sneers against 
the principles of my excellent friend.” 

“ Perhaps,” replied Erskine tartly, “ his practise will be 
equally immaculate in your eyes. And now, Jane, I beseech 
you for once to forget that Mr. Lloyd is your excellent friend ; 
a man who bestowed some trifling favours on your childhood, 
and remember the rights of one to whom you at least owe 
your love — though he would neither accept that, nor your 
gratitude, as a debt.” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


185 


Jane assured him she was ready to hear any thing and 
every thing impartially that he would tell her. He replied, 
that he detested stoical impartiality ; that he wished her to 
enter into his loves and his hates, without asking a reason for 
them. “But since,” he continued, “you must have the reason, 
I will not withhold it. As I told you, I submitted to a thou- 
sand vexations, little impertinences : he is plausible and gen- 
tlemanly in his manners, so there was nothing I could resent, 
till after a contemptible affair between John and the old 
basket-maker and the Woodhulls, in which I used my hum- 
ble professional skill to extricate my friends, who had been 
perhaps a little hasty in revenging the impertinence of the 
foolish old man. Lloyd was present at the trial before the 
justice : I fancied, from the expression of his face, that he 
wished my friends to be foiled, and this stung me, and stimu- 
lated my faculties. I succeeded in winning my cause in spite 
of law and equity, for they were both against me ; and this 
you know is rather flattering to one’s talents. The Wood- 
hull’s overwhelmed me with praises and gratitude. I felt 
sorry for the silly old man, whom they had very unceremo- 
niously unhoused, and I proposed a small subscription to en- 
able him to pay the bill of costs, &c., which was his only re- 
ceipt from the prosecution. I headed it, and it was soon 
made up ; but the old fellow declined it with as much dig- 
nity as if he had been a king in disguise. It was an affair of 
no moment, and I should probably never have thought of it 
again, if Lloyd had not the next day made it the text upon 
which he preached as long a sermon as I would hear, upon 
the characters of the Woodhulls; he even went so far as to 
presume to remonstrate with me upon my connection with 
them ; painted their conduct on various occasions in the black- 
est colours ; spoke of their pulling down the old hovel, which 


186 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


had in fact been a mere cumberer of the ground for twenty- 
years, as an act of oppression and cruelty ; said their habits 
were all bad ; their pursuits all either foolish or dangerous. 
I restrained myself as long as possible, and then I told him, 
that I should not submit to hear any calumnies against my 
friends ; friends who were devoted to me, who would go to 
perdition to serve me. If they had foibles, they were those 
that belonged to open, generous natures ; they were open- 
handed, and open-hearted, and had not smothered their pas- 
sions, till they were quite extinguished. I told him they 
were honourable young men, not governed by the fear that 
L holds the wretch in order.’ He might have known that I 
meant to tell him they were what he was not ; but he seemed 
quite unmoved, and I spoke more plainly. I had never, I 
told him, been accustomed to submit my conduct to the re- 
vision of any one ; that he had no right, and I knew not why 
he presumed, to assume it, to haunt me like an external con- 
science ; that my 1 genius was not rebuked by his/ neither 
would it be, if all the marvellous light of all his brethren was 
concentrated in his luminous mind.” 

“ Oh, Erskine, Erskine !” exclaimed Jane, “ was this your 
return for his friendly warning V’ 

“ Hear me through, Jane, before you condemn me. He 
provoked me more than I have told you. He said that I 
was responsible to you for my virtue ; that I betrayed your 
trust by exposing myself to be the companion, or the prey, 
of the vices of others. Would you have had me borne 
this, Jane? Would you thank me for allowing that he 
was more careful of your happiness than I am?” — “Well.” 
added he, after a moment’s pause, “as you do not reply, 
I presume you have not yet decided that point. We 
separated, my indignation roused to the highest pitch. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


187 


and he cold and calm as ever. When we next met, there 
was no difference in his manners to me that a stranger would 
have observed ; hut I perceived his words were all weighed 
and measured, as if he would not venture soon again to dis- 
turb a lion spirit.” 

“ Is this all?” asked Jane. 

" Not half,” replied Erskine ; and after a little hesita- 
tion he continued, “ I perceive that it is impossible for you 
to see things in the light I do. Your aunt with her ever- 
lasting cant, your Methodist friend with her old maid no- 
tions, and this precise Quaker, above all, have made you so 
rigid, have so bound and stiffened every youthful indulgent 
feeling, that I have little hope of a favourable judgment.” 

“ Then,” said Jane, rising, “ it is as unnecessary as pain- 
ful for me to hear the rest.” 

“ No, you shall not go,” he replied ; “ I expect miracles 
from the touch of love. I think I have an advocate in your 
heart, that will plead for me against the whole 1 privileged 
order’ of professors — of every cast. Do not be shocked, my 
dear Jane ; do not, for your own sake, make mountains of 
molehills, when I tell you, that the young men of the village 
instituted a club, three or four months since, who meet once 
a week socially, perhaps a little oftener, when we are all 
about home : and” — he hesitated a moment, as one will when 
he comes to a ditch, and is uncertain whether to spring over, 
to retreat; or to find some other way ; but he had too much 
pride to conceal the fact, and though he feared a little to an- 
nounce it, yet he was determined to justify it. Jane was 
still mute, and he went on — •“ We play cards ; sometimes we 
have played later and higher perhaps than we should if we 
had all been in the leading-strings of prudence ; all been bred 
Quakers. Our club are men of honour and spirit, high-mind- 


188 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


ed gentlemen ; a few disputes, misunderstandings, might 
arise now and then, as they will among people who do 
not weigh every word, lest they should chance to have an 
idle one to account for ; hut, till the last evening, we have, 
in the main, spent our time together as whole-souled fellows 
should, in mirth and jollity. As I said, last evening unfor- 
tunately ” 

“ Tell me nothing more, Mr. Erskine ; I have heard 
enough,” interrupted Jane. 

u What ! you will not listen to friend Lloyd’s reproaches ; 
not listen to what most roused his holy indignation ?” 

“ I have no wish to hear any thing further,” replied J ane. 
“ I have heard enough to make my path plain before me. I 
loved you, Edward ; I confessed to you that I did.” 

“ And you do not any longer ?” 

“ I cannot ; the illusion has vanished. Neither do you 
love me.” Edward would have interrupted her; but she 
begged him to hear her, with a dignified composure, that con- 
vinced him this was no sudden burst of resentment, no girl- 
ish pique that he might soothe with flattery and professions. 
“ A most generous impulse, Edward, led you to protect an 
oppressed orphan ; and I thought the devotion of my heart 
and my life were a small return to you. It is but a few 
months since. Is not love an engrossing passion ? But what 
sacrifices have you made to it? Oh, Edward ! if in the 
youth and spring of your affection I have not had more 
power over you, what can I hope from the future ?” 

“ Hope ! — believe every thing, Jane. I will be as plastic 
as wax, in your hands. You shall mould me as you will.” 

“ No, Edward; I have tried my power over you, and 
found you wanting. Broken confidence cannot be restored.” 

u Jane, you are rash ; you are giving up independence — 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


189 


protection. If you reject me, who will defend you from your 
aunt ? Do you forget that you are still in her power ?” 

“No,” replied Jane; “hut I have the defence of inno- 
cence, and I do not fear her. It was not your protection, it 
was not independence I sought, it was a refuge in your affec- 
tion ; — that has failed me. Oh, Edward !” she continued, 
rising, “ examine your heart as I have examined mine, and 
you will find the tie is dissolved that hound us ; there can 
he no enduring love without sympathy; our feelings, our pur- 
suits, our plans, our inclinations are all diverse.” 

“ You are unkind, ungrateful, Jane.” 

“ I must bear that reproach as I can ; hut I do not de- 
serve it, Mr. Erskine.” 

Erskine imagined he perceived some relenting in the fal- 
tering of her voice, and he said, “ Do not be implacable, 
Jane ; you are too young, too beautiful, to treat the follies 
of youth as if they were incurable ;' give me a few months’ 
probation, I will do any thing you require ; abandon the 
club, give up my asoociates.” 

Jane paused for a moment, but there was no wavering in 
her resolution — “ No, Mr. Erskine ; we must part now ; if I 
loved you, I could not resist the pleadings of my heart.” 

Erskine entreated — promised every thing ; till convinced 
that Jane did not deceive him or herself, his vanity and 
pride, mortified and wounded, came to his relief, and changed 
his entreaties to sarcasms. He said the rigour that would 
immolate every human feeling, would fit her to be the Elect 
Lady of the Shaker society ; he assured her that he would 
emulate her stoicism. 

“ I am no stoic,” replied Jane ; and the tears gushed 
from her eyes. “ Oh, Erskine ! I would make any exertions, 
any sacrifices to render you what I once thought you. I 


190 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


would watch and toil to win you to virtue — to heaven. If I 
believed you loved me, I could still hope, for I know that 
affection is self-devoting, and may overcome all things. Ed- 
ward,” she continued, with trembling voice, “ there is one sub- 
ject, and that nearest to my heart, on which I discovered 
soon after our engagement we were at utter variance. When 
I first heard you trifle with the obligations of religion, and 
express a distrust of its truths, I felt my heart chill. I re- 
proached myself bitterly for having looked on your insensi- 
bility on this subject as the common carelessness of a gay 
young man, to be expected and forgiven, and easily cured. 
These few short months have taught me much ; have taught 
me, Erskine, not that religion is the only sure foundation of 
virtue — that I knew before* — but they have taught me, that 
religion alone can produce unity of spirit ; alone can resist 
the cares, the disappointments, the tempests of life ; that it 
is the only indissoluble bond — for when the silver chord is 
loosed, this bond becomes immortal. I have felt that my 
most sacred pleasures and hopes must be solitary.” Erskine 
made no reply; he felt the presence of a sanctified spirit. 
“ You now know all, Erskine. The circumstances you have 
told me this evening, I partly knew before.” 

“ From Lloyd ?” said Edward. u He then knew, as he 
insinuated, why your 1 colour had faded.’ ” 

*■ You do him wrong. He has never mentioned your name 
since the morning I left my aunt’s. I heard them by acci- 
dent, from John.” 

“ It is, in truth, time we should part, when you can give 
your ear to every idle rumour he snatched his hat, and 
was going. 

Jane laid her hand on his arm, “ Yes, it is time,” she said, 
u that we should part ; but not in anger. Let us exchange 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


191 


forgiveness, Edward.” Erskine turned, and wept bitterly. 
For a few gracious moments his pride, his self-love, all melt- 
ed away, and he felt the value, the surpassing excellence of 
the blessing he had forfeited. He pressed the hand Jane 
had given him to his lips, fervently ; “ Oh, Jane,” he said, 
“ you are an angel ; forget my follies, and think of me with 
kindness.” 

“ I shall remember nothing of the past,” she said, with a 
look that had 1 less of earth in it than heaven/ “ but your 
goodness to me — God bless you, Edward ; God bless you !” 
she repeated, and they separated — for ever ! 

For a few hours Erskine thought only of the irreparable 
loss of Jane’s affections. Every pure, every virtuous feeling 
he possessed, joined in a clamorous tribute to her excel- 
lence, and in a sentence of self condemnation that could not 
be silenced. But Edward was habitually under the domin- 
ion of self-love, and every other emotion soon gave place to 
the dread of being looked upon as a rejected man. He had 
not courage to risk the laugh of his associates, or what would 
be much more trying, their affected pity ; and to escape it 
all, he ordered his servant to pack his clothes, and make the 
necessary preparations for leaving the village in the morning, 
in the mail-stage for New- York. He was urged to this step 
too, by another motive, arising from a disagreeable affair in 
which he had been engaged — the affair which had induced Mr. 
Lloyd to make a second attempt to withdraw him from his 
vicious associates. At a recent meeting of the club, the 
younger Woodhull had introduced a gentleman who pretend- 
ed to be a Mr. Rivington, from Virginia. Woodhull had 
met him at Saratoga Springs. They were kindred spirits, 
and, forming a sudden friendship, Rivington promised Wood- 
hull that, after he had exhausted the pleasures of the Springs 


192 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


he would come to , and pass a few days with him before 

his return to Virginia. Rivington was a fit companion for 
his new friend ; addicted to a sco~e of vices ; gambling high, 
and out-drinking, out-swearing, and out-bullying his # com- 
rades. Edward was certainly far better than any other 
member of this precious association. He was, from the first, 
disgusted with the stranger, with his gross manners, and not a 
little with the manifest indisposition to pay to him the defer- 
ence he was accustomed to receive from the rest of the com- 
pany. The club sat later than usual. Rivington’s passions 
became inflamed by the liquor he had drank. A dispute 
arose about the play. Erskine and John Woodhull were 
partners. Kivington accused Woodhull of unfair play. Ed- 
ward defended his partner. A violent altercation ensued be- 
tween them. The lie was given and retorted in so direct a 
form as to afford ample ground for an honourable adjustment 
of the dispute. 

“ Rivington said, “ If he had to deal with a Virginan — a 
man of honour — the quarrel might be settled in a gentlemanly 
way, but a sniveling cowardly Yankee had no honour to de- 
fend.” Edward was provoked to challenge him ; and arrange- 
ments were made for the meeting at daylight in the morning, 
in a neighbouring wood, which had never been disturbed by 
harsher sound than a sportsman’s gun. The brothers were to 
act as seconds. 

The parties were all punctual to their appointment. The 
morning, of which they were going to make so unhallowed a 
use, was a most beautiful one. The mist took a poet’s liberty 
and played with realities. The place of rendezvous was on 
a hill-side. Below it the valley appeared a lake over which 
floated a tremulous veil of vapor. Dotting it here and there 
were green spires of Lombardy poplar, branches of sugar 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


193 


maple with its massive foliage, and widely spreading houghs 
of the drooping elm — that queen of beauty. 

“ J ocund day stood tip-toe on the summit of monument,” 
brightened the green hill-tops, and shone all along the wavy 
outline of the mountains. But this lovely aspect of nature 
was unheeded and unnoticed by these rash young men. Her 
sacred volume is a sealed book to those who are inflamed by 
passion, or degraded by vice. 

The ground was marked out, the usual distance prescribed 
by the seconds, and the principals were just about to take 
their stations, when they were interrupted by Mr. Lloyd, 
who in returning from his morning walk, passed through this 
wood, which was within a short distance of his house. On 
emerging from the thick wood, into the open space selected 
by the young men, they were directly before him, so that it 
was impossible for him to mistake the design of their meet- 
ing. 

“ Confusion !” exclaimed Edward ; mortified that Mr. 
Lloyd, of all men living, should have witnessed this scene ; 
and then turning to him, “ To what, sir,” said he haughtily, 
“ do we owe the favour of your company?” 

“ Purely to accident, Mr. Erskine, or, I should say, to 
Providence, if I may be so happy as to prevent a rash viola- 
tion of the laws of God and man.” 

“ Stand off, sir !” said Edward, determined now to brave 
Mr. Lloyd’s opposition, “and witness, if you will, for you 
shall not prevent, our brave encounter.” 

Mr. Lloyd had interposed himself between Edward and 
his adversary, and he did not move from his station. “ A 
brave encounter, truly !” he replied, pointing with a smile of 
contempt at Rivington, who was shaking as if he had an 
ague ; “ that young man’s pale cheeks and trembling limbs 
9 


194 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


do not promise the merit of bravery to your encounter, Mr. 
Erskine.” 

“ The devil take the impertinent fellow !” exclaimed the 
elder Woodhull (Edward’s second) ; “proceed to your business, 
gentlemen.” . 

Erskine placed himself in an attitude to fire, and raised 
his arm. Mr. Lloyd remained firm and immovable. “ Do 
you mean to take my fire, sir?” asked Erskine. “If you 
continue to stand there, the peril be upon yourself ; the fault 
rests with you.” 

“ I shall risk taking the fire, if thou dare risk giving it,” 
replied Mr. Lloyd, coolly. 

“ Curse him !” said Woodhull, “he thinks you are afraid 
to fire.” 

This speech had the intended effect upon Erskine. “ Give 
as the signal,” he said, hastily. 

The signal was given, and Edward discharged his pistol. 
The ball grazed Mr. Lloyd’s arm, and passed off without any 
other injury. “ It was bravely done,” said he, with a con- 
temptuous coolness, that increased, if any thing could in- 
crease the shame Erskine felt, the moment he had vented his 
passion by the rash and violent act. “We have been singu- 
larly fortunate,” he continued, “ considering thou hast all the 
firing to thyself, and two fair marks. Poor fellow !” he 
added, turning to Rivington, “ so broad a shield as I furnish- 
ed for thee, I should have hoped would have saved some of 
this fright.” 

John Woodhull had perceived that his friend’s courage, 
which, the preceding evening, had been stimulated by the 
liquor, had vanished with the fog that clouded his reason ; 
and ever since they came on the battle-ground, he had been 
vainly endeavouring to screw him up to the sticking point, 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


195 


by suggesting, in low whispers, such motives as he thought 
might operate upon him ; but all his efforts were ineffectual. 
Rivington was, to use a vulgar expression, literally ‘ scared 
out of his wits.’ When the signal was given for firing, he 
had essayed to raise his arm, but it was all unstrung by fear, 
and he could not move it. The sound of Erskine’s pistol 
completed his dismay ; he dropped his pistol, said he was 
willing to own he was no gentleman; he would beg Mr. 
Erskine’s pardon, and all the gentlemen’s pardon ; he would 
do any thing almost the gentlemen would say. 

John Woodhull felt his own reputation implicated by his 
principal’s cowardice ; and passionate and reckless, he seized 
the pistol, and would have discharged the contents at Riving- 
ton ; but Mr. Lloyd seeing his intention, caught hold of his 
arm, wrenched the pistol from him, fired it in the air, and 
threw it from him. “ Shame on thee, young man !” he ex- 
claimed, “ does the spirit of murder so possess thee, that it 
matters not whether thy arm is raised against friend or foe ?” 

“He is no friend of mine,” replied Woodhull, vainly en- 
deavouring to extricate himself from Mr. Lloyd’s manly 
grasp ; he is a coward, and by my life and sacred honour !” — 

“ Oh, Mr. Woodhull! sir,” interrupted Rivington, “I am 
your friend, sir, and all the gentlemen’s friend, sir. I am 
much obliged to you, sir,” turning to Mr. Lloyd, who could 
not help laughing at the eagerness of his cowardice ; “ I am 
sorry for the disturbance, gentlemen, and I wish you all a 
good morning, gentlemen !” and so saying, he walked off the 
ground as fast as his trembling limbs could take him. 

Mr. Lloyd now released young Woodhull from his hold ; 
and winding his handkerchief around his arm, which was 
slightly bleeding, he said, “ I perceive there is no further 
occasion for my interposition. I think the experience of this 


196 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


morning will not tempt you to repeat this singular disturb 
ance of the peace of this community.” 

The party were all too thoroughly mortified to attempt a 
reply, and they separated. Erskine felt a most humiliating 
consciousness of his disgrace ; but he had not sufficient 
magnanimity to confess it, nor even to express a regret that 
he had wounded a man, who exposed his life to prevent him 
from committing a crime. The Woodhulls were deprived of 
the pitiful pleasure of sneering at Mr. Lloyd’s want of cour- 
age. The younger brother’s arm still ached from his expe- 
rience of Mr. Lloyd’s physical strength ; and they all felt the 
inferiority of their boastful, passionate, and reckless fool- 
hardiness, to the collected, disinterested courage of a peaceful 
man, who had risked his life in their quarrel. 

To fill up the measure of their mortification, Rivington 
had not left the village two hours, before several persons 
arrived there in pursuit of him. They informed his new 
friends, that he was not a Virginian, a name that passes among 
our northern bloods as synonymous with high-breeding, high- 
mindedness, noble daring, &c., &c., but that he was a coun- 
tryman of their own, a celebrated swindler, who had lived by 
his wits, ascending by regular gradations through the profes- 
sions of hostler, dancing-master, and itinerate actor ; and that 
having lately, by cleverness in managing the arts of his voca- 
tion, possessed himself of a large sum of money, he had made 
his debut as gentleman at the Springs. 

After the events of the morning, Mr. Lloyd felt more 
anxiety than ever on J ane Elton’s account ; and never weary 
in well-doing, he determined to make one more effort to rescue 
Erskine from the pernicious society and influence of the 
Woodhulls. He solicited an interview with him ; and with- 
out alluding to the events of the morning, he remonstrated 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


197 


warmly and kindly against an intimacy, of which the degra- 
dation and the danger were too evident to need pointing out. 
He trusted himself to speak of Jane,* of her innocence, her 
purity, her trustful affection, her solitariness, her dependence. 

At any other time, we cannot think Edward would have 
been unmoved by the eloquence of his appeal ; but now he 
was exasperated by the mortifications of the morning ; and 
when Mr. Lloyd said, “ Erskine. if Jane Elton knew all, would 
she not withdraw her affections from thee?” he replied, 
angrily, “She shall know all. I have a right to expect she 
will overlook a few foibles ; such as belong to every young man 
of spirit. She owes me, at least, so much indulgence. She 
is bound to me by ties that cannot be broken — that she cer- 
tainly cannot break.” He burst away from Mr Lloyd, and 
went precipitately to Mrs. Harvey’s, where the explanation 
we have related ensued, and put a final termination to their 
unequal alliance. 

The speculations of villagers are never at rest till they 
know the wherefore of the slightest movements of the prom- 
inent personages that figure on their theatre. Happily for 
our heroine, who was solicitous for a little while to be shel- 
tered from the scrutiny and remarks of her neighbours, the 
affair of the duel soon became public, and sufficiently accounted 
for Erskine’s abrupt departure. 

Jane would have communicated to Mary, her kind, con- 
stant friend Mary Hull, the issue of her engagement ; but it so 
happened, that she was at this time absent on a visit to her 
blind sister. She felt it to be just, that she should acquaint 
Mr. Lloyd with the result of an affair, in which he had mani- 
fested so benevolent and vigilant a care for her happiness. 
Perhaps she felt a natural wish, that he should know his 
confidence in her had not been misplaced. She could not 


198 


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speak to him on the subject, for their intercourse had been 
suspended of late ; and besides, she was habitually reserved 
about speaking of herself. She sat down to address a note 
to him ; and, after writing a dozen, each of which offended 
her in some point — either betrayed a want of delicacy towards 
Erskine, or a sentiment of self-complacency — either expressed 
too much, or two little — she threw them all into, the fire, and 
determined to leave the communication to accident. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


199 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Oh, wad some pow’r the giftie gie us, 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us, 
And e’en devotion ! 


A few days after Erskine’s departure, Mrs. Harvey entered 
Jane’s room hastily,— * Our village,’’, she exclaimed, “is the 
most extraordinary place in the world ; wonders cease to he 
wonderful among us.” 

“What has happened now?” inquired Jane, “I know not 
from your face whether to expect good or evil.” 

“ Oh evil, my dear, evil enough to grieve and frighten 
you. Your wretched cousin David Wilson has got himself 
into a scrape at last, from which all the arts of all his family 
cannot extricate him. You know,” she continued, “ that we 
saw an account in the New- York paper of last week, of a rob- 
bery committed on the mail stage : the robbers have been 
detected and taken, and Wilson, who it seems had assumed 
a feigned name, is among them.” 

“ And the punishment is death !” said Jane, in a tone of 
sorrow and alarm. 


2C0 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


“Yes; so Mr. Lloyd says, by the laws of the United 
States, against which he has offended. Mr. Lloyd has been 
here, to request that you, dear Jane, will go to your aunt 
and say to her that he is ready to render her any services 
in his power. You know he is acquainted in Philadelphia, 
where David is imprisoned, and he may be of essential use to 
him.” 

“ My poor aunt, and Elvira ! what misery is this for 
them ?” said Jane, instinctively transfusing her own feelings 
into their bosoms. 

“ For your aunt it may be,” replied Mrs. Harvey, “ for I 
think nothing can quite root out the mother ; but as for El- 
vira, I believe she is too much absorbed in her own affairs to 
think of David’s body or soul.” 

“ I will go immediately to my aunt ; but what has hap- 
pened to Elvira ?” 

“ Why Elvira, it seems, during her visit to the west, met 
with an itinerant French dancing-master, who became vio- 
lently enamored of her, and who did not sigh or hope in vain. 
She probably knew his vocation would be an insuperable 
obstacle to her seeing him at home ; and so between them 
they concerted a scheme to obviate that difficulty, by introduc- 
ing him to Mrs. Wilson as a French physician, from Paris, 
who should volunteer his services to cure her scrofula, which, 
it is said, has lately become more troublesome than ever. By 
way of a decoy, he was to go upon the usual quack practice of 
“ no cure no pay.” 

“ And this,” exclaimed Jane, “is the sick physician we 
heard was at my aunt’s ?” 

“ Yes, poor fellow, and sick enough he has been. He 
arrived just at twilight, last week on Monday, and having 
tied his horse, he was tempted, by seeing the door of the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


201 


chaise-house half open, to go in there to arrange his dress 
previous to making his appearance before Miss Wilson. He 
had hardly entered before old Jacob coming along, saw the 
door open, and giving the careless boys (whom he supposed 
in fault) a reversed blessing, he shut and fastened it. It was 
chilly weather, you know, but there the poor fellow was 
obliged to stay the live-long night, and till Jacob, sallying 
forth to do his morning chores, discovered him half-starved 
and half-frozen. But,” said Mrs. Harvey, “ you are prepared 
to go to your aunt, and I am detaining you — you may ask the 
sequel of Elvira.” 

“ Oh no, let me hear the rest of it ; only be short, dear 
Mrs. Harvey, for if any thing is to be done for that wretched 
young man, not a moment should be lost.” 

“ My dear, 'I will be as short as possible ; but my words 
will not all run out of my mouth at once, as they melted out 
of Munchausen’s horn. Well, this poor French doctor, dancer, 
or whatever he is, effected an interview with Elvira, before he 
was seen by the mother ; and though no doubt she was shocked 
by his unsentimental involuntary vigil, she overlooked it, and 
succeeded in palming him off on the old lady as a foreign 
physician, who had performed sundry marvellous cures in his 
western progress. Mrs. Wilson submitted her disease to his 
prescription. In the meanwhile, he, poor wretch, as if a 
judgment had come upon him for his sins, has been really and 
seriously sick, in consequence of the exposure to the damp- 
ness of a September night, in his nankins ; and Elvira has 
been watching and nursing him according to the best and 
most approved precedents to be found in ballads and ro- 
mances.” 

“ Is it possible,” asked Jane, “ that aunt Wilson should be 
9 * 


202 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


imposed on for so long a time ? Elvira is ingenious, and 
ready, but she is not a match for her quick-sighted mother.” 

u No, so it has proved in this case. The doctor became 
better, and the patient worse ; his prescriptions have had a 
dreadful effect upon the scrofula ; and as the pain increased, 
your aunt became irritable and suspicious. Last evening, 
she overhead a conversation between the hopeful lovers, which 
revealed the whole truth to her.” 

u And what has she done ?” 

“ What could she do, my dear, but turn the good-for- 
nothing fellow out of doors, and exhaust her wrath upon El- 
vira. The dreadful news she received from David late last 
evening, must have driven even this provoking affair out of 
her troubled mind. But,” said Mrs. Harvey, rising and going 
to the window, “who is that coming through our gate? El- 
vira, as I live ! — what can she be after here ?” 

“ My aunt has probably sent for me,” replied Jane ; and 
she hastened to open the door for her cousin, who entered 
evidently in a flutter. “ I was just going to your mother’s,” 
said Jane. 

“ Stay a moment,” said Elvira ; “ I must speak with you. 
Come into your room,” and she hastened forward to Jane’s 
apartment. She paused a moment on seeing Mrs. Harvey, 
and then begged she would allow her to speak with her cousin 
alone. 

Mrs. Harvey left the apartment, and Elvira turned to 
Jane, and was beginning with great eagerness to say some- 
thing, but she paused — unpinned her shawl, took it off, and 
then put it on again — and then asked Jane, if she had heard 
from Erskine ; and, without waiting a reply, which did not 
seem to be very ready, she continued, “ How glad I was ho 
fought that duel ; it was so spirited. I wish my lover would 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


203 


fight a duel. It would have been delightful if he had only 
been wounded.” 

. Jane stared at her cousin, as if she had been smitten with 
distraction. “Elvira,” she said, with more displeasure than 
was often extorted from her, “ you are an incurable trifler ! 
How is it possible, that at this time you can waste a thought 
upon Erskine or his duel ?” 

“ Oh ! my spirits run away with me, dear Janp ; but I 
do feel very miserable,” she replied, affecting to wipe away 
the tears from her dry. eyes. Poor David ! — I am wret ehed 
about him. He has disgraced us all. I suppose you have 
heard, too, about Lavoisier. Every body has heard of 
mother’s cruelty to him and to me. Oh, Jane ! he is the 
sweetest creature — the most interesting being” 

“ Elvira,” replied Jane, coldly, “ I do not like to reproach 
you in your present affliction ; but you strangely forget all 
that is due to your sex, by keeping up such an intercourse 
with a stranger — by ranting in this way about a wandering 
dancing-master — a foreigner.” 

“ A foreigner, indeed ! as if that was against him. Why, 
my dear, foreigners are much more genteel than Americans ; 
and besides, Lavoisier is a count in disguise. Oh ! if you 
could only hear him speak French ; it is as soft as an iEolian 
harp. Now, Jane, darling, don’t be angry with me. I am 
sure there never was any body so persecuted and unfortunate 
as I am. Nobody feels for me.” 

“ It is impossible, Elvira, to feel for those who have no 
feeling for themselves.” 

“ Oh, Jane ! you are very cruel,” replied Elvira, whim- 
pering ; “ I have been crying ever since I received poor 
David’s letter, and it was about that I came here ; but you do 


204 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


not seem to have any compassion for our sorrows, and I am 
afraid to ask for what I came for.” 

“ I cannot afford to waste any compassion on unnecessary 
or imaginary sorrows, Elvira. The real and most horrible 
calamity that has fallen upon you, requires all the exertions 
and feelings of your friends.” 

u That’s spoken like yourself, dear, blessed Jane,” said 
Elvira, brightening ; “ now I am sure you will not refuse me 
— you are always so generous and kind.” 

“ I have small means to be generous,” replied Jane ; “ but 
let me know, at once, what it is you want, for I am in haste 
to go to your mother.” 

“ You are a darling, Jane — you always was.” 

“ What is it you wish, Elvira ?” inquired J ane again, 
aware that Elvira’s endearments were always to be inter- 
preted as a prelude to the asking of a favour. 

“ I wish, dear Jane,” she replied, summoning all her reso- 
lution to her aid ; “ I wish you . to lend me twenty dollars. 
If you had seen David’s piteous letter to me, you could not 
refuse. It is enough to make any body’s heart ache ; he is 
down in a dark disagreeable dungeon, with nothing to eat 
from morning to night, but bread and water. He petitions 
for a little money so earnestly, it would make your heart 
bleed to read his letter. Mother declares she will not send 
him a dollar.” 

u How do you intend sending the money to him ?” asked 
Jane, rising and going to her bureau. 

“ Oh !” replied Elvira, watching Jane’s movements, “you 
are a dear soul. It is easy enough getting the money to 
him. I heard, this morning, that Mr. Harris is going on to 
the south ; he starts this afternoon. I shall not mind walk- 
ing to his house, though it is four miles from here. I shall 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


205 


go immediately, and I shall charge him to deliver the money 
himself. It will be such a relief and comfort to my unfor- 
tunate brother.” 

There seemed to be something in Elvira’s eagerness to 
serve her brother, and in her newly awakened tenderness for 
him, that excited Jane’s suspicions; for she paused in the 
mid&tjb of counting the money, turned round, and fixed a 
penetrating look upon her cousin. Elvira, without appearing 
to notice any thing peculiar in her expression, said (advanc- 
ing towards her), “ Do be quick, dear Jane ; it is a great way 
to Mr. Harris’s ; I am afraid I shall be late.” 

Jane had finished. counting the money. 

“ Twenty dollars, is it, dear ?” said Elvira, hastily and 
with a flutter of joy seizing it. u There are five dollars 
more,” she continued, looking at a single bill Jane had laid 
aside ; “ let me have that too, dear, it will not be too much 
for David.” 

“ I cannot,” replied Jane ; “that is all I have in the world, 
and that I owe to Mrs. Harvey.” 

“ La, Jane ! what matter is that ; you can have as much 
money as you want of Erskine ; and besides, you need not be 
afraid of losing it ; I shall soon be of age, and then I shall 
pay you, for mother can’t keep my portion from me one day 
after that. Then I will have a cottage. Lavoisier says, we 
can have no idea, in this country, how beautiful a cottage is, 
a la Franqaise. Do, dearest, let me have the other five.” 

w No,” said Jane, disgusted with Elvira’s importunity and 
levity, and replacing the note in her drawer ; “ I have given 
you all I possess in the world, and you must be content 
with it.” 

Elvira saw that she should obtain no more. She hastily 
kissed Jane ; and after saying, “ Good-bye, my dear, go to 


206 


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mother’s, and stay till I come,” she flew out of the house, ex- 
ulting that her false pretences had won so much from her 
cousin.. At a short distance from Mrs. Harvey’s she joined 
her lover, according to a previous arrangement between 
them. 

Lavoisier had procured a chaise from a neighbouring 
farmer, which was principally devoted to the transportation 
of its worthy proprietor and the partner of his joys to and 
from the meeting-house on Sundays and lecture days, but 
was occasionally hired out to oblige such persons as might 
stand in need of such an accommodation, and could afford to 
pay what was “ consistent” for it. 

u Allons — marche done !” said the dancing philosopher to 
his horse, after seating Elvira ; and turning to her, he pressed 
one of her hands to his lips, saying, “ Pardonnez-moi,” — ad- 
ding as he dropt it, “ tout nous sourit dans la nature.” 

Elvira pointed out the road leading to the dwelling of a 
justice of the peace, a few miles below the line which divides 
the State of Massachusetts from that of New- York. They 
arrived at this temple of Hymen, and of petty legislation 
about eleven in the morning. The justice was at work on 
his farm ; a messenger was dispatched for him, with whom 
he returned in about thirty minutes, which seemed as many 
hours to our anxious lovers. 

“ Dey say,” said Lavoisier, u l’amour fait passer le temps, 
but in l’Amerique it is very differente.” 

The justice took Lavoisier aside, and inquired whether 
there were any objections to the marriage, on the part of the 
lady’s friends. 

u Objection !” said Lavoisier, “ it is the most grand 
felicite to every body. You cannot conceive.” 

On being further interrogated, Lavoisier confessed that 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


207 


they came from Massachusetts ; and being asked why they 
were not married at the place of the lady’s residence, he 
said that “ some personnes without sensibilite may wait, but 
for mademoiselle and me, it is impossible.” 

Elvira being examined apart, in like manner, declared 
that her intended husband’s impatience and her own dislike 
to the formality of a publishment, had led them to $void the 
usual mode and forms of marriage. 

The justice, who derived the chief profits of his office 
from clandestine matches, and who had made these inquiries 
more because it was a common custom, than from any scru- 
ples of conscience, or sense of official duty, was perfectly sat- 
isfied ; and after requiring from the bridegroom the usual 
promise to love and cherish ; and from the bride, to love, 
cherish, and obey ; pronounced them man and wife, and re- 
corded the marriage in a book containing a record of similar 
official acts, and of divers suits and the proceedings therein. 

The bride and bridegroom immediately set out for the 
North River, intending to embark there for New- York. 

u These things do manage themselves better in France,” 
said Lavoisier. u Les noces qui se font ici — the marriages 
you make here — are as solemn que la sepulture — as to bury. 
Le Cupidon ici a l’air bien sauvage ; if de little god was 
paint here, they would make him work as de justice. Eh 
bien !” said he, after a pause, u chacun a son metier ; without 
some fermiers there should not be some maitres-de-danse. 
some professeurs of de elegant arts : et sans les justices, you 
would not be mon ange — you would not be Madame La- 
voisier.” 

Elvira was so occupied with the change in her condition, 
and the prospect before her, that she did not observe the 
direction in which they were travelling ; and by mistake they 


208 


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# 

took the road leading back through a cleft in the mountain 
towards a village in the vioinity of the one they had left. 

As they ascended the top of a hill, their steed began to 
prick his ears at the distant sound of a drum and fife, which 
the fugitives soon perceived to be part of the pride, pomp, and 
circumstance of a militia training. The village tavern was in 
full view, and within a short distance, and the company was 
performing some marching evolution a little beyond. An 
election of captain had just taken place ; and the suffrages of 
the citizen soldiers had fallen upon a popular favourite, who 
had taken his station as commanding officer, and was show- 
ing his familiarity with the marches and counter-marches of 
Eaton’s Manual. He had been just promoted from the rank 
of first lieutenant ; and previous to the dismissal of his men, 
which was about to take place, he drew them up in front of 
the village store, when according to custom, and with due re- 
gard to economy, which made the store a more eligible place 
for his purposes than the tavern, he testified his gratitude for 
the honour which had been done him by copious libations of 
cherry rum, and of St. Croix, which was diluted or not, ac- 
cording to the taste of each individual. The men soon began 
to grow merry : and some of them swore that they would not 
scruple to vote for the captain for major-general, if they had 
the choosing of that officer. The venders of gingerbread felt 
the influence of the good fellowship and generosity which the 
captain had set in motion. A market for a considerable por- 
tion of their commodity was soon furnished by the stimulated 
appetites of the men, and a portion was distributed by the 
more gallant among them, to some spectators of the softer 
sex, who were collected upon the occasion. 

The happy pair in the mean time had arrived at the ta- 
vern. Elvira’s attention had not been sufficiently awakened 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


209 


by any thing but the conversation of her husband, to notice 
where she was, until she was called to a sense of her embar- 
rassing situation by the landlord’s sign, as it was gently 
swinging in the wind between two high posts, and exhibited 
a successful specimen of . village sign-painting, the distin- 
guished name of the host, and the age of his establishment. 

Elvira directed the Frenchman to stop and turn his 
horse, which he did immediately, without understanding the 
object. 

u Eh bien !” said - he, his eyes still fixed on the young 
soldiers; u II me vient une idee. I shall tell you.” He 
went on to signify that he would immediately offer to teach 
the art of fencing and of using the broad-sword ; that he would 
instruct them 11 dans l’art militaire, a la mode de Napoleon 
and that, after giving a few lessons, he would make a tourna- 
ment, in which he would let them see, among other things, 
how Bonaparte conquered the world ; how the cavalry could 
trample down flying infantry ; and how the infantry, in such 
circumstances, could defend themselves ; and that he would, 
in this way, make himself “ bien riche.” 

During all this time Elvira was collecting her wits to 
know what the emergency required ; and as soon as Lavoi- 
sier’s volley ceased, she begged him to return again, thinking 
she might best avoid observation by seeking shelter in the 
tavern till dark. 

They immediately alighted, and Lavoisier, after showing 
his bride to her apartment, descended to give some orders 
about his horse ; when, to his astonishment, he was accosted 
by the jolly landlord, whose name was Thomas, “ Ha, moun- 
sheer ! I guess you are the man who staid with me a fort- 
night two years ago, when I kept house in York State, and 
borrowed my chaise to go a jaunting, and told me to take care 


210 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


of your trunk, that had nothing hut a big stone in it, till you 
came back. I got my horse and chaise again,” continued he, 
seizing the astounded professor of the dancing and military 
arts by the collar, il and now I’ll take my reck’nin’ out of your 
skin, if I can’t get it any other way.” 

At this moment the new captain and a considerable num- 
ber of his merry men entered the house. After they had 
learned th.e circumstances of the case, from what passed be- 
tween monsieur and the landlord, one of them cried out, 
“ Ride him on a rail — let him take his steps in the air !” 

u He ought to dance on nothing, with a rope round his 
neck,” said Thomas. 

“ No, no,” said a third, u he has taken steps enough ; that 
flashy jacket had better be swapped for one of tar and fea- 
thers.” 

<e Messieurs, messieurs,” said Lavoisier, u je suis bien mal- 
heureux. I am very sorry. II etoit mon malheur — it was 
my rnisere to not pay monsieur Thomas, and it was his mal- 
heur not to be paid. I shall show you my honneur, when I 
shall get de l’argent. II faut se soumettre aux circonstances. 
De honesty of every body depend upon what dey can do. I 
am sure, every body is gentleman in dis country. C’est un 
beau pays.” 

By this time one of the corporals had set a skillet of tar 
on the fire, and another, by the direction of the lieutenant, 
who seemed to take upon himself the command of the party, 
had brought a pillow from a bed in an adjoining room. The 
pillow was very expeditiously uncased, and a sufficient rent 
made in the ticking. The astonished Franyais stood aghast, 
as his bewildered mind caught a faint notion of the purpose 
of these preparations. lie changed his tones of supplication 
to those of anger. “ Vous etes des sauvages !” he exclaimed 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


211 


“ You are monstres, diables ! You do not merit to have 
some gentiman to teach la belle danse in dis country.” 

“ He’ll cackle like a. blue-jay,” said the corporal, “ by the 
time we get the feathers on him.” 

“They are hen’s feathers,” said the lieutenant, “but 
they’ll do. Now ensign Sacket get on to the table, and corpo- 
ral you hand him the skillet of tar. You Mr. Le Yosher, or 
whatever your name is, stand alongside of the table.” 

Monsieur believed his destiny to be fixed — “ Oh, mon 
Dieu !” he exclaimed ; “ le diable ! qu’est que c’est que ca ? 
Yat you do — vat is dat?” 

“ Tar, tar, nothing but tar — stand up to the table,” was 
the reply. 

“ Sacristie ! put dat sur ma t6te — on my head et sur mes 
habits — my clothes ; mes beaux habits de noces — my fine 
clothes for de marriage ! Oh, messieurs, de grace, pardonnez- 
moi ; vous gaterez — you will spoil all my clothes.” 

“ Blast your clothes !” said the corporal ; “ pull them off.” 

“ Je vous remercie, tank you, gentlemen and he very 
deliberately divested himself of a superfine light-blue broad- 
cloath coat, and embroidered silk vest, a laced cravat and an 
under cravat of coarser fabric. He prolonged the operation 
as much as possible, making continued efforts to conciliate 
the compassion of his persecutors, which only added to their 
merriment. 

At last all pretences for delay were over; every voice was 
hushed. The ensign began to uplift the fatal skillet, when 
all composure of mind forsook the affrighted bridegroom, and 
he uttered a loud shriek. Favoured by the general stillness, 
Elvira distinctly heard his voice, and knew at once that it 
betokened the extremity of distress. She rushed to the res- 
cue, screaming for mercy. The men fell back, leaving their 


212 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


trembling victim in the centre of the room. u Ah ! ma chere, 
quels b6tes !” he exclaimed, with a grimace that produced a 
peal of laughter. One of the men threw him his coat, 
another his vest ; while the corporal set down the skillet, 
saying, “ If it had not been for his gal , I’d have given him a 
wedding suit.” 

But we rather think monsieur would have been released 
without the interposition of his distressed bride, for a Yankey 
mob is proverbially good-natured, and the merry men had 
enlisted in the landlord’s cause, for the sake of a joke, rather 
than with the intention of inflicting pain. After the ludi- 
crous adventure was over — ludicrous to the jolly trainers , 
but sad enough to the fugitive pair — Elvira deemed it expe- 
dient to press their retreat. Monsieur brought the chaise to 
the door, and they drove away amidst the loud huzzas and 
merry clappings of the jovial company. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


213 


CHAPTER XV. 

— Even-handed justice 

Commends the ingredients of our poison’d 
Chalice, to our own lips. 

Macbeth. 

David Wilson, not long after the affair of the robbery of his 
mother’s desk, went to New- York, in order to see his com- 
rades, who were imprisoned there, and, if possible, to abate 
ther demands on his purse. He succeeded in doing this ; 
but having fallen in (attracted doubtless by natural affini- 
ties) with other companions as wicked, and more desperate, 
he soon spent in that city, which affords remarkable facilities 
for ridding men of their money, all that remained of the five 
hundred dollars. He preyed on others for a little time, as 
he had been their prey ; and, finally reduced to extreme 
want, he joined two of his new associates in an attempt on 
the southern mail, which ended in his detection and commit- 
ment to jail in Philadelphia, where he was now awaiting a 
capital trial. A particular account of the whole affair, ac- 
companied with letters from her son, was transmitted to Mrs. 
Wilson, who seemed now to be visited on every side with 
the natural and terrible retribution of her maternal sins. 

After Elvira’s departure, with all the profits of her little 


214 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


school, Jane did not delay another moment to go to her 
aunt’s, in order to communicate to her Mr. Lloyd’s kind offer 
of assistance, and to extend to her any aid or consolation in 
her own power. 

She found Mrs. Wilson alone, but not in a frame of mind 
that indicated any just feelings. She received her niece 
coldly. After a silence of a few moments, which Jane wished 
but knew not how to break, she inquired of Mrs. Wilson, 
whether she had any more information respecting David than 
was public T 

Her aunt replied, she had not. She understood the par- 
ticulars were all in the paper,' even to his name ; she thought 
that might have been omitted ; but people always seemed to 
delight in publishing every one’s misfortunes. 

Jane asked if the letters expressed any doubt that David 
would be convicted ? 

“ None,” Mrs. Wilson said. “ To be sure,” she added, 
“ I have a letter from David, in which he begs me to employ 
counsel for him : so I suppose he thinks it possible that he 
might be cleared : but a drowning man catches at straws.” 

“Do you know,” inquired Jane, “the names of the emi- 
nent lawyers in Philadelphia? Mr. Lloyd will be best able 
to inform you whom to select among them. I will go to him 
immediately.” 

“ No, no, child ; I have made up my mind upon that sub- 
ject. It would be a great expense. There is no conscience 
in city lawyers ; they would devour all my substance, and do 
me no good after all. No, no — I shall leave D^vid entirely 
in the hands of Providence.” 

“ And can you, aunt,” said Jane, “ acquiesce in your son’s 
being cut off in the spring of life, without an effort to save 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


215 


him — without an effort to procure him a space for repentance 
and reformation ?” 

“ Do not presume, Jane Elton,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “ to 
instruct me in my duties. A space for repentance ! A day 
— an hour — a moment is a*s good as an eternity for the oper- 
ations of the Spirit. Many, at the foot of the gallows, have 
repented, and have died exulting in their pardon and new- 
born hope.” 

“ Yes,” replied Jane ; u and there have been many who 
have thus repented and rejoiced, and then been reprieved ; 
and have they then shown the only unquestionable proof of 
genuine penitence— a renewed spirit ? Have they kept the 
commandments, for by this shall ye know that they are the 
disciples of Christ? No: they have returned to their old 
sins, and been tenfold worse than at first.” 

“ I tell you,” said Mrs. Wilson, impatiently, “ you are 
ignorant, child ; you are still in the bond of iniquity ; you 
cannot spiritually discern. There is more hope, and that is 
the opinion of some of our greatest divines, of an open outra- 
geous transgressor, than of one of a moral life.” 

“ Then,” replied Jane, “there is more hope of a harvest 
from a hard-bound, neglected field, than from that which the 
owner has carefully ploughed and sowed, and prepared for 
the sun and the rains of heaven.” 

“ The kingdom of grace- is very different from the king- 
dom of nature,” answered Mrs. Wilson. “ The natural man 
can do nothing towards his own salvation. Every act he 
performs, and every prayer he offers, but provokes more and 
more the wrath of the Almighty.” 

Jane made no reply; but she raised her hands and eyes 
as if she deprecated so impious a doctrine, and Mrs. Wilson 
went on : “ Do not think my children are worse than others ; 


216 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


you, Jane, are as much a child of wrath, and so is every son 
and daughter of Adam, as he is — all totally depraved — to- 
tally corrupt. You may have been under more restraint, and 
not acted out your sins ; but no thanks to you and she 
continued, fixing her large gray eyes steadfastly on Jane. 
“ there are beside my son who would not seem, better, if 
they had not friends to keep their secrets for them.” Mrs. 
Wilson had, for very good reasons, never before alluded to 
the robbery of her desk, since the morning it was commit- 
ted ; but she was now provoked to foul means to support her 
argument, tottering under the assault of facts. 

Jane did not condescend to notice the insinuation; she 
felt too sincere a pity for the miserable self-deluded wo- 
man ; but, still anxious that some effort should be made for 
David, she said to Mrs. Wilson, “ Is there, then, nothing to 
be done for your unhappy son ?” 

“ Nothing, child, nothing ; he has gone out from me, and 
he is not of me ; his blood be upon his own head ; I am clear 
of it ; my ‘ foot standetli on an even place.’ My case is not 
an uncommon one,” she continued, as if she would by this 
vain babbling, silence the voice within. u The saints of old 
— David, and Samuel, and Eli, were afflicted as I am, with 
rebellious children. I have planted and I have watered, and 
if it is the Lord’s will to withhold the increase, I must 
submit.” 

“Oh, aunt!” exclaimed Jane, interrupting and advanc- 
ing towards her, “ do not — do not, for your soul’s sake, in- 
dulge any longer this horrible delusion. You have more 
children,” she continued, falling on her knees, and taking one 
of her aunt’s hands in both hers, and looking like a rebuking 
messenger from Heaven, “ be pitiful to them ; be merciful to 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


217 


your own soul. You deceive yourself. You may deceive 
others ; but Grod is not mocked.” 

Mrs. Wilson was conscience stricken. She sat as mo- 
tionless aa a statue; and Jane went on with the courage of 
an Apostle to depicture, in their true colours, her character 
and conduct. She made her realize, for a few moments at 
least, the peril of her soul. She made her feel, that her 
sound faith, her prayers, her pretences, her meeting-goings, 
were nothing — far worse than nothing in the sight of Him, 
who cannot be deceived by the daring hypocrisies, the self- 
delusions, the refugies of lies, of his creatures. She de- 
scribed the spiritual disciple of J esus ; and then presented 
to Mrs. Wilson so true an image of her selfishness, her pride, 
her domestic tyranny, and her love of money, that she could 
not but see that it was her very self. There was that in 
Jane’s looks, and voice, and words, that was not to be resisted 
by the wretched woman ; and like the guilty king, when he 
saw the record on the wall, her M countenance was changed, 
her thoughts were troubled, and her knees smote one against 
the other.” 

At this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of 
Mr. Lloyd. Jane rose, embarrassed for her aunt and her- 
self, and walked to the window. Mrs. Wilson attempted to 
speak, to rise ; she could do neither, and she sunk back on 
her chair, convulsed with misery and passion. Mr. Lloyd 
mistook her agitation for the natural wailings of a mother 
and with instinctive benevolence he advanced to her, and 
said, “ Be composed, I pray ; I have intelligence that will 
comfort thee.” 

“What is it?” inquired Jane, eager to allay the storm 
she had raised, 

Mrs. Wilson was unable to speak. 

10 


218 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 

“ Thy son has escaped, Mrs. Wilson, and is, before this, 
beyond the reach of his country’s laws. Here is a letter ad- 
dressed to thee, which came inclosed in one to me.” Mr. 
Lloyd laid the letter on Mrs. Wilson’s lap, but she was un- 
able to open it or even to hold it. Her eyes were fixed, her 
hands firmly closed, and she continued to shiver with uncon- 
trollable emotion. “ She is quite unconscious,” he said, “ she 
does not hear a word I say to her.” 

Jane flew to her assistance, spoke to her, entreated her to 
answer, bathed her temples and her hands — but all without 
effect. 11 Oh !” she exclaimed, terrified and dismayed, “ I 
have killed her.” 

u Do not be so alarmed,” said Mr. Lloyd, “ there is no 
occasion for it ; the violence of her emotion has overcome 
her, it is the voice of nature ; let us convey her to her bed.” 

Jane called assistance, and they removed her to her own 
room, and placed her on her bed. 

“ See,” whispered Mr. Lloyd to Jane, after a few mo- 
ments, “ she is becoming composed already ; leave her for a 
little time with this domestic — I have much to say to 
thee.” 

Jane followed him to the parlour. He took both her 
hands, and said, his face radiant with joy, “ Jane, many 
daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest then* all. 
Nay, do not tremble, unless it be for the sin of having kept 
from me so long the blessed intelligence of this morning.” 

Poor Jane tried to stammer out an apology for her re- 
serve, but Mr. Lloyd interrupted her by saying playfully, u I 
understand it all ; I am too old, too stern, too — Quakerish, 
to be a young lady’s confidant.” 

“ Oh, say not so,” exclaimed J ane, gathering courage from 
his kindness ; u you have been my benefactor, my guardian, 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


219 


my kindest friend; forgive my silence — I feel it all — I have 
always felt it ; perhaps most, when I seemed most insensible.” 
Mr. Lloyd looked gratified beyond expression ; it cost him an 
effort to interrupt her. But he said, “ Nay, my sweet friend, 
it will be my turn next, if thou dost not stop, and I too shall 
be, as tlie French name my brethren, a Trembleur. I have 
a great deal to tell thee ; our joys have clustered. What 
sayest thou, Jane, to another walk to old John’s, with as 
strange, and a more welcome guide, than crazy Bet. I have 
no time to lose in enigmas : our dispatches were brought by 
a sailor, a fine good-natured, hardy-looking fellow, who came 
to my house this morning. I was wondering what he could 
be doing so far from his element, when Mary, who returned 
to us yesterday, opened the door for him, and exclaimed, with 
a ludicrous mixture of terror and joy, 1 The Lord have mercy 
on us! is it you, or your ghost, Jemmy V The sailor gave 
her a truly professional, and most unghostly, smack, and re- 
plied between crying and laughing, ‘ I am no ghost, Mary, as 
you may see ; but excuse me, Mary, (for Mary had stepped 
back, a little embarrassed by the involuntary freedom of her 
friend,) I was so glad, I could not help it. No, no, Mary, I 
am no ghost, but a prodigal that’s come back, thanks to the 
Lprd ! a little better than I went.’ James, who is indeed 
the long lost son of our good friend John of the Mountain, 
went on to detail his experiences to Mary, who by turns raised 
her hands and eyes in wonder and devout thankfulness. The 
amount of it is, for their joy overflowed all barriers of reserve, 
he left this place ten years ago in despair, because Mary would 
not marry him, and sailed to the Mediterranean ; the poor 
fellow was taken by the Algerines, and after suffering almost 
incredibly for six years, he was so happy as to procure his 
freedom along with some English captives. After his release, 


220 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


he said he could not endure the thought of coming to his 
father and mother quite destitute ; for, as he said to Mary, 
though he was a wild lad, and had a fancy to follow the sea, 
her cruelty would not have driven him to leave them, if he 
had not hoped to get something to comfort their old age with. 
He wrote them an account of his sufferings, and of aif engage- 
ment he had made to go to Calcutta in the service of an Eng- 
lish merchantman. The letters it seems never reached them. 
He went to India ; many circumstances occurred to advance 
him in the favour of his employer ; his integrity, which, he 
said, the tears streaming from his eyes, was ‘ all owing to the 
teachings and examples of his good old parents ;’ and his in- 
telligence, 1 thanks to his country, which took care to give the 
poor man learning,’ occasioned his being employed in the Com- 
pany’s service, and sent with some others into the interior of 
India on business of great hazard and importance, the success 
of which his employers attributed to him, and rewarded him 
most liberally. All these facts came out inevitably in the 
course of his narrative, for he spoke not boastfully, but with 
simplicity and gratitude. He has returned with enough to 
purchase a farm, and give to his parents all that they want 
of this world ; and, what our friend Mary thinks best of all, 
he has come home a Methodist, having been made one by a 
missionary of that zealous sect in India. If I have not mis- 
interpreted Mary’s glistening eye, this fact will cost me my 
housekeeper.” 

K Hear, dear Mary !” exclaimed J ane, brushing away the 
tears of sympathy and joy that Mr. Lloyd’s narrative had 
brought to her eyes, “ and John, and old Sarah. Oh, it is as 
beautiful a conclusion of their lives, as if it had been conjured 
up by a poet.” 

u Ah) J ane,” replied Mr. Lloyd, “ there are realities in the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


221 


kind dispositions of Providence more blessed than a poet can 
dream of ; and there are virtues in real life,” he continued, 
smiling, “ that might lend a persuasive grace to the page of a 
moralist ; it is of those I must now speak.” 

“Not now,” said Jane, hastily rising, “ I must go to my 
aunt.” 

“ At least then, take these letters with thee ; the levity of 
one will give thee some pain ; in the other, the wretched Wil- 
son has done thee late justice. Now go, my blessed friend, to 
thy aunt ; would that thou couldst minister to her mind, dis- 
tracted by these terrible events. Oh, that power might be 
given to thy voice to awaken her conscience from its deep, 
oblivious sleep !” 

It was a remarkable proof of Mr. Lloyd’s habitual grace, 
that he did not forget, at this moment, that Jane could not 
work miracles without supernatural assistance. 

There is not a happier moment of existence than that 
which a benevolent being enjoys, when he knows that the ob- 
ject of his solicitude and love has passed safely through trial, 
is victorious over temptation and has overcome the world. 
This was the joy that now a thousand fold requited Mr. Lloyd 
for all his sufferings in the cause of our heroine. W ould Mr. 
Lloyd have been equally happy in the proved virtue of his 
favourite, if hope had not brightened his dim future with her 
sweetest visions? Certainly not. He who hath wonderfully 
made us, hath, in wisdom, implanted the principle of self-love 
in our bosoms ; and let the enthusiast rave as he will, it is 
neither the work of grace nor of discipline to eradicate it ; 
but it may, and if we would be good, it must be modified, con- 
trolled, and made subservient to the benefit and happiness of 
others. 

Mr. Lloyd had no very definite plans for the future ; but 


222 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


his horizon was brightening with a coming day ; and without 
vanity or presumption, he trusted all would be well. 

Jane returned to her aunt’s apartment, and found her in 
a sullen stupor. She did not seem to notice ; at any rate, 
she made no reply to Jane’s kind inquiries, and she, after 
drawing the curtains and dismissing the attendant, sat down 
to the perusal of the letters Mr. Lloyd had given to her. The 
first she read was from Erskine to Mr. Lloyd, and as it was 
not long, and was rather characteristic, we shall take the 
liberty to transcribe it for the benefit of our readers. 

“ Dear Sir, 

“ In returning to my lodgings, late last evening, I was 
accosted by a man, muffled in a cloak. I recognised his voice 
at once. It was our- unfortunate townsman. Wilson. He has 
succeeded a merveille in an ingenious plan of escape from du- 
rance, and sails in the morning for one of the West India 
islands, where he will, no doubt, make his debtit as pirate, or 
in some other character, for which his training has equally 
qualified him. A precious rascal he is indeed ; but, allow me 
a phrase of your fraternity, sir, I had no light to give him up 
to justice, after he had trusted to me ; and more than that, 
for he informs me, that he had, since his confinement, written 
to the W oodhulls to engage me as counsel, and through them 
he learnt the fact of my being in this city. This bound me, 
in some sort, to look upon the poor devil as my client ; and, 
as it would have been my duty to get him out of the clutches 
of the law, it would have been most ungracious to have put 
him into them, you know, since his own cleverness, instead of 
mine, has extricated him. He has explained to me, and he 
" informs me has communicated to you, (for he says he cannot 
trust his mother to make them public,) the particulars of the 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE 


223 


sequestration of the old woman’s money. I think Miss Elton 
never imparted to you the event that led to the sudden en- 
gagement, from which she has chosen to absolve me ; and you 
have yet to learn, that there is generosity, disinterestedness 
in the world, that may rival the virtue which reposes under 
the shadow of the broad-brim. But, your pardon. I have 
wiped out all scores. The reception I have met with in this 
finest of cities, has been such as to make me look upon the 
incidents of an obscure village as mere bagatelles, not worthy 
of a sigh from one who can bask in the broad sunshine of la- 
dies’ favour and fortune’s gifts. One word more, en passant , 
of Wilson’s explanations. I rejoice in it sincerely, on Miss 
Elton’s account. She deserved to have suffered a little for 
her childishness in holding herself bound by an exacted pro- 
mise, for having put herself in a situation in which her guilt 
would have seemed apparent to any one but a poor dog whom 

love had hoodwinked pro tempore. She is too young and 

too beautiful a victim for the altar of conscience. However, 
I forgive her, her scruples, her fanaticism, and her cruelties ; 
and wish her all happiness in this world and the next, advis- 
ing her not to turn anchorite here, for the sake of advance- 
ment there. 

“ I know not when I shall return to the village life : stale, 
flat, and unprofitable. This gay metropolis has cured me of 
my rural tastes ; and, as I flatter myself, fashion’s hand has 
quite effaced my rusticity. 

“ By a lucky chance I met the son of your protege, J ohn, 
yesterday. The poor dog’s 1 hairbreadth ’scapes’ will make 
the villagers stare, all unused as they are to the marvellous. 
I told him, by way of a welcome to his country, I should pay 
his expenses home. This I hope you, sir, wiir accept in ex- 
piation of all my sins against the old basket-maker. 


224 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


“ With many wishes that you may find a new and more 
pliant subject for your Mentor genius, I remain, sir, your 
most obedient, 

“ Humble servant, 

“ E. Erskine. 

“ N. B. My regards to Miss Elton. Tell her I look at 
the windows of our print shops every day, in the expectation 
of seeing, among their gay show, her lovely figure chosen by 
one of the sons of Apollo, to personate the stern lady, Justice, 
(whom few seek and none love) poising her scales in solitary 
dignity.” 


“And is this the man,” thought Jane, as she folded the 
letter, “ that I have loved — that I fancied loved me ?” — and 
her heart rose in devout thankfulness for the escape she had 
made from an utter wreck of her happiness. 

She next read Wilson’s letter to Mr. Lloyd. It began 
with the particulars of his late escape, which seemed to pos- 
sess his mind more than any thing else. He then said, that 
being about to enter on a new voyage, he wished to lighten 
his soul of as much of its present cargo as possible. He stated, 
and we believe with sincerity, that he had intended, if it ever 
became necessary, to assert J ane’s innocence ; but that, as 
long as no one believed her guilty, he had thought it fair to 
sli£ his neck out of the yoke ; and now, that every body might 
know how good she was, he wished Mr. Lloyd to make known 
all the particulars of the transaction. He then went on to 
detail as much as he knew of her visit to the mountain, which 
had led to her subsequent involvement. He expressed no 
remorse for the past, no hope of the future. His wish to ex- 
culpate Jane had arisen from a deep feeling of her excellence, 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


227 


had suffered all her life, and which had probably increased 
the natural asperity of her temper ; as all evils, physical as 
well as moral, certainly make us worse, if they do not make 
us better. Elvira was summoned to her death-bed ; but she 
arrived too late to receive either the reproaches or forgiveness 
of her mother. J ane faithfully attended her through her last 
illness, and most kindly ministered to the diseases of her 
body. Her mind no human comfort could reach ; no earthly 
skill touch is secret springs. The disease was attended with 
delirium ; and she had no rational communication with any 
one from the beginning of her illness. This Jane afterwards 
sincerely deplored to Mr. Lloyd, who replied, “ I would not 
sit like the Egyptians in judgment on the dead. Thy aunt 
has gone with her record to Him who alone knows the secrets 
of the heart, and therefore is alone qualified to judge His 
creatures ; but for our own benefit, J ane, and for the sake of 
those whose probation is not past, let us ever remember the 
wise saying of William Penn, 4 a man cannot be the better 
for that religion for which his neighbour is the worse.’ I have 
no doubt thy aunt has suffered some natural compunctions 
for her gross failure in the performance of her duties ; but 
she felt safe in a sound faith. It is reported, that one of the 
Popes said of himself, that 1 as Eneas Sylvius, he was a dam- 
nable heretic, but as Pius II. an orthodox Pope.’ ” 

“ Then you believe,” replied Jane, “ that my unhappy 
aunt deceived herself by her clamorous profession ?” 

u Undoubtedly. Ought we to wonder that she effected 
that imposition on herself, by the aid of self-love, (of all love 
the most blinding,) since we have heard, in her funeral sermon, 
her religious experiences detailed as the triumphs of a saint ; 
her strict attention on religious ordinances commended, as if 
they were the end and not the means of a religious life ; since 


228 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


we (who cannot remember a single gracious act of humility 
in her whole life) have been told, as a proof of her gracious 
state, that the last rational words she pronounced were, that 
she 1 was of sinners the chief?’ There seems to be a curious 
spiritual alchymy in the utterance of these words ; for we 
cannot say, that those who use them mean to 1 palter in a 
double sense,’ but they are too often spoken and received as 
the evidence of a hopeful state. Professions and declarations 
have crept in among the Protestants, to take the place of the 
mortifications and penances of the ancient church ; so prone 
are men to find some easier way to heaven than the toilsome 
path of obedience.” 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


225 


and seemed to be the last ray of just or kindly feeling that 
his dark, guilty spirit emitted. 

J ane had scarcely finished reading the letters, when her 
attention was called to her aunt, who had been thrown into a 
state of agitation almost amounting to frenzy, by the perusa; 
of her son’s farewell letter to herself, which Mr. Lloyd had 
placed on the pillow beside her, believing that it merely con- 
tained such account of David’s escape and plans, as would 
have a tendency to allay the anguish of her mind, which he 
still supposed arose solely from her apprehensions for her 
son’s life. But Mr. Lloyd was too good even to conceive of 
the bitterness of a malignant, exasperated spirit, wrought to 
madness, as Wilson’s was, by his mother’s absolute refusal to 
make any effort to save his life. 

The letter was filled with execrations. “ If I hav$ a 
soul,” he said, “ eternity will be spent in cursing her who has 
ruined it but he did not fear the future — hell was a bug- 
dear to frighten children. u You,” he continued, “ neither 
fear it, nor believe it ; for if you did, your religion would be 
something besides a cloak to hide your hard, cruel heart. 
Religion ! what is it but a dream, a pretence ? I might have 
believed it, if I had seen more like Jane Elton — whom you 
have trodden on, wrongfully accused, when you knew her in- 
nocent. Mother, mother ! oh, that I must call you so ! — as I 
do it, I howl a curse with every breath — you have destroyed 
me. You it was that taught me, when I scarcely knew my 
right hand from my left, that there was no difference between 
doing right and doing wrong, in the sight of the God you 
worship ; you taught me, that I could do nothing acceptable 
to him. If you taught me truly, I have only acted out the 
nature totally depraved, (your own words,) that he gave to 
me, and I am not to blame for it. I could do nothing to 
10 * 


226 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


save my own soul ; and according to your own doctrine, I 
stand now a better chance than my moral cousin, Jane. If 
you have taught me falsely, I was not to blame ; the peril be 
on your own soul. My mind was a blank, and you put your 
own impressions on it ; God (if there be a God) reward you 
according to your deeds !” 

This horrible letter, of which we have given a brief speci- 
men * and subtracted from that the curses that pointed every 
sentence, seemed for a little while to swell the clamours of 
Mrs. Wilson’s newly awakened conscience. But, alas ! the 
impression was transient ; the chains of systematic delusion 
were too firmly riveted — the habits of self-deception too strong, 
to be overcome. 

Jane, fearful that the violence of her aunt’s passion would 
destroy her reason, sought only, for the remainder of the day 
and the following night, to soothe and quiet her. She re- 
mained by her bedside, and silently watched, and prayed. 
Mrs. Wilson’s sleep was disturbed, but she awoke somewhat 
refreshed, and quite composed. Her first action was to tear 
David’s letter into a thousand fragments. She was never 
known afterwards to allude to its contents, nor to her conver- 
sation with Jane. There was a restlessness through the re- 
mainder of her life, which betrayed the secret gnawings of 
conscience. Still it is believed, she quelled her convictions 
as Cromwell is reported to have done, when, as his historian 
says, he asked Goodwin, one of his preachers, if the doctrine 
were true, that the elect should never fall, nor suffer a final 
reprobation? — “Nothing more certain,” replied the preacher. 
“ Then I am safe,” said the Protector ; “ for I am sure I was 
once in a state of grace.” 

Mrs. Wilson survived these events but a few years. She 
was finally carried off by scrofula, a disease from which she 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


231 


and which was now made in spite of Rebecca’s presence. It 
cannot be denied, in deference to the opinion of some very 
fastidious ladies, that Jane was prepared for it; for though 
the marks of love are not quite as obvious, as the lively Ro- 
salind describes them, yet we believe that, except in the case 
of very wary lovers — cautious veterans — they are first ob- 
served by the objects of the passion. 

W e are warned from attempting to describe the scene to 
which our little pioneer had led the way, by the fine remark 
of a sentimentalist, who compares the language of lovers to 
the most delicate fruits of a warm climate — very delicious 
where they grow, but not capable of transportation. 

The result of the interview was perfectly satisfactory to 
both parties ; and as this was one of the occasions when all 
the sands of time are u diamond sparks,” it is impossible to 
say when it would have come to a conclusion, had it not been 
for little Rebecca, who seemed to preside over the destinies 
of that day. 

Her father had interpreted his conversation with Jane to 
his child, and had succeeded in rendering the object and the 
result of it level to her comprehension, and she had lavished 
her joy in loud exclamations and tender caresses ; till finding 
she was no longer noticed, she had withdrawn to a window, 
and was amusing herself with gazing at the passengers in the 
street, when she suddenly turned to Jane, and raising the 
window at the same moment, she said, “ Oh, there goes Mary 
to lecture, may I call her and tell her V 7 

At this moment the sweet child might have asked any 
thing without the chance of a refusal, and ready assent was 
no sooner granted, than she screamed and beckoned to Mary, 
who immediately obeyed the summons. 

Mary entered, and Rebecca closing the door after her, 


232 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


said, “ I guess thee will not want to go to lecture to-day, 
Mary, for I have a most beautiful secret to tell thee ; hold 
down thy ear, and promise never to tell as long as thy name 
is Mary Hull and then, unable any longer to subdue her 
voice to a whisper, she jumped up and clapped her hands, and 
shouted, “ Joy, joy, joy ! May, Jane Elton is coming to live 
with us all the days of her life, and is going to be my own 
mother.” 

Mary looked to Mr. Lloyd, and then to Jane, and read in 
their faces the confirmation of the happy tidings : and to 
Rebecca’s utter amazement, the tears streamed from her 
eyes. “ Oh, Mary !” said she, turning disappointed away, 
“ now I am ashamed of thee, I thought thee would be as glad 
as I am.” 

But Mr. Lloyd and Jane knew how to understand this 
expression of her feelings ; they advanced to her and gave 
her their hands ; she joined them : “ the Lord hath heard my 
prayer,” she said. 

u I thank thee, Mary,” replied Mr. Lloyd ; u God grant I 
may deserve thy confidence.” 

“ If she “has prayed for it, what then does she cry for ?” 
said Rebecca, who stood beside her father, watching Mary’s 
inexplicable emotion, and vainly trying to get some clue 
to it. 

“ Come with me, my child, and I will tell thee,” replied 
her father, and he very discreetly led out the child, and left 
Jane with her faithful friend. 

The moment he had closed the door, Mary said, smiling 
through her tears of joy, u It has taken me by surprise at 
last, but for all that I am not quite so blind as you may 
think. Bo you remember, Jane, telling me one day when 
you laid your book down to listen to Mr. Lloyd, who was 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


229 


CHAPTER XVI. 

d-od, the best maker of all marriages, 

Combine your hearts in one. 

Henry V. 

We wtevv AA^icipated our story, tempted by a natural desire 
to conclude tbe history of Mrs. Wilson, that its deep shade 
might not interfere with the bright lights that are falling on 
the destiny of our heroine. After the dissolution of her en- 
gagement with Erskine, Jane continued her humble vocation 
of schoolmistress for some months. Rebecca Lloyd had 
from the beginning been one of her pupils, and a favourite 
among them ; and so devotedly did the child love her instruc- 
tress, that Mr. Lloyd often thought impulse was as sure a 
guide for her affections as reason for his. Jane’s care of his 
child furnished him occasion, and an excuse when he needed 
it, for frequent intercourse with her, and in this intercourse 
there were none of those mysterious embarrassments (mys- 
terious, because inexplicable to all but the parties) that so 
often check the progress of affection. Jane, released from 
the thraldom in which she had been bound to Erskine, was as 
happy as a liberated captive. Her tastes and her views were 
similar to Mr. Lloyd’s, and she found in his society a delight- 


230 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


ful exchange, and a rich compensation for the solitude to 
which her mind and affections had been condemned. 

We are ignorant, perhaps Jane was, of the precise mo- 
ment when gratitude mfelted into love, and friendship resign- 
ed the reins to his more fervid dominion. But it was not 
long after this, nor quite “ a year and a day” (the period of 
mourning usually allotted to a faithful husband) after her 
%separa^bion from Erskine, that, as she was sitting with Mrs. 
Harvey in her little parlour, Mr. Lloyd entered with his 
child. After the customary greetings, Mrs. Harvey suddenly 
recollected that some domestic duties demanded her pre- 
sence, and saying with an arch smile to Mr. Lloyd that she 
“ hoped he would overlook her absence,” she left the room. 
Little Rebecca was sitting on her father’s knee ; she took 
from his bosom a miniature of her mother, which he always 
wore there, and seemed intently studying the lovely face 
which the artist had truly delineated. “ Ho the angels look 
like my mother?” she asked. 

“ Why, my child ?” 

“ I thought, father, they might look like her, she looks so 
bright and so good.” She kissed the picture, and after a 
moment’s pause, added, “Jane looks like mother, all but the 
cap ; dost not thee think, father, Jane would look pretty in a 
Quaker cap ?” Mr Lloyd kissed his little girl, and said 
nothing. Rebecca’s eyes followed the direction of her fa- 
ther’s : “ Oh, Jane !” she exclaimed, “ thou dost not look like 
mother now, thy cheeks are as red as my new doll’s.” 

The child’s observation of her treacherous cheek had cer- 
tainly no tendency to lessen poor Jane’s colour. She would 
have been glad to hide her face any where, but it was broad 
daylight, and there was now no escape from the declaration 
which had been hovering on Mr. Lloyd’s lips for some weeks, 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


233 


talking to Rebecca, that since your mother’s voice had been 
silent, you had never heard one so sweet as Mr. Lloyd’s. I 
thought to myself then you seemed to feel just as I do when 
I hear the sound of James’s voice ; not that I mean to com- 
pare myself to you, or James to Mr. Lloyd, but it is the na- 
ture of the feeling — it is the same in the high and the low, 
the rich and the poor.” 

“ Was that all the ground of your suspicion?” asked Jane, 
smiling at her friend’s boasted sagacity. 

“ No, not quite all; James has been very impatient for 
our marriage ; and from time to time I have told Mr. Lloyd 
I wished he would look out for some one to take charge of his 
house, and I advised him not to get a very young person, for, 
says I, they are apt to be flighty. I never saw one that was 
not. but Jane Elton. He smiled and blushed, and asked me 
what made me think that you were so much above the rest of 
your sex. and so I told him, and he never seemed to weary 
with talking about you.” 

“I am rejoiced,” replied Jane, “ that your partiality to 
me reconciles you to the disparity in our ages.” 

“ Oh, that is nothing ; that is, in your case it is nothing. 
Let us see, ele ven years. In most cases it would be too 
much, to be sure; there is just four years between James 
and I, that is just right, I think ; and then, dear Jane, you 
are so different from other people, you need not go by com- 
mon rules.” 

The overflowing of Mary’s heart was checked by the en- 
trance of some company. As she parted with Jane, she 
whispered, “ I shall not think of leaving Mr. Lloyd till you 
are married, be it sooner or later ; when I see you in your 
own home, it will be time enough to think of my affairs.” 

There still remained a delicate point to adjust : Mr. 


234 


a NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


Lloyd had been brought up a Quaker, and he had seen no 
reason to depart from the faith or mode of worship which 
had come down to him from his ancestors, and for which he 
felt on that account (as who does not?) an attachment and 
veneration. He rarely, if ever, entered into discussion upon 
religious subjects, and probably, did not feel much zeal for 
some of the peculiarities of his sect. He was not disposed 
to question their utility in their ordinary operation upon com- 
mon character. He knew how salutary were the restraints 
of discipline upon the mass of men, and he considered the 
discipline of habits and opinions infinitely more salutary 
than the direct and coarse interference of power. He per- 
ceived, or thought he perceived, that as a body of men, the 
“ Friends” were upon the whole more happy and prosperous 
than any other. No litigious contentions ever came among 
them. This circumstance Mr. Lloyd ascribed in a consider- 
able degree to the uniformity of their opinions, habits, and 
lives, and to their custom of restricting their family alli- 
ances within the limits of their own sect. Mr. Lloyd regarded 
with complacency most of the characteristics of his own re- 
ligious society ; and those which he could not wholly approve, 
he was yet disposed to regard in the most favourable light ; 
but he was no sectarian : his understanding was too much 
elevated, and his affections were too diffused to be confined 
within the bounds of sect. Such ties could not bind such a 
spirit. If any sectarian peculiarities had interfered to re- 
strain him in the exercise of his duty, or while acting under 
the strong impulses of his generous nature, he would have 
shaken them off “ like dew-drops from a lion’s mane.” Ex- 
clusion from the society would have been painful to him for 
many reasons, but the fear of it could not occasion a mo- 
ment’s hesitation in his offering his hand to a woman whom 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


235 


he loved and valued, and whose whole life he saw animated 
by the essential spirit of Christianity. He determined now 
to inform his society of his choice, and to submit to the cen- 
sure and exclusion from membership that must follow. But 
Mr. Lloyd was saved the painful necessity of breaking ties 
which were so strong that they might he called natural 
bonds. 

Jane had been early led to inquire into the particular 
modification of religion professed by her benefactor, and re- 
spect for him had probably lent additional weight to every 
argument in its favour. This was natural ; and it was na- 
tural too, that after her matured judgment sanctioned her 
early preference, she should from motives of delicacy have 
hesitated to declare it. If it cannot be denied that this pro- 
selyte was won by the virtues of Mr. Lloyd, it is to be pre- 
sumed that no Christian will deny the rightful power of such 
an argument. 

If the reader is not disposed to allow that Jane’s choice of 
the religion of her friend was the result of the purity and 
simplicity of her character, the preference she always gave to 
the spirit over the letter, to the practice over the profession, 
she must call to her aid the decision of the poet, who says 
that I 

“ Minds are for sects of various kinds decreed , 

As different soils are formed for different seed ” 


Not a word had passed between Mr. Lloyd and Jane on 
the subject of the mental deliberations and resolves of each, 
when a few days after their engagement, Jane said to him, 
“ I have a mind to improve the fatal hint of my little mis- 
chievous friend, and see how becoming I can make a “ Quaker 


cap. 


236 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


What dost thou mean, Jane ?” inquired Mr. Lloyd, who 
%^emed a little puzzled by the gravity of her face, which was 
not quite in keeping with the playfulness of her words. 

“ Seriously,” she replied, u with your consent and appro- 
bation, I mean to be a £ member by request ’ of your society 
of Friends.” 

“ Shall my people be thy people ?” exclaimed Mr. Lloyd 
with great animation. u This, indeed, converts to pure gold 
the only circumstance that alloyed my happiness ; but do not 
imagine, dear Jane, that I think it of the least consequence, 
by what name the different members of the Christian family 
are called.” 

“ But you think it right and orderly ,” she replied, smiling, 
u that the wife should take the name of the husband.” | 

. “ I think it most happy, certainly.” 

There remained now no reason for deferring the marriage 
longer than was rendered necessary by the delays attending 
the admission of a new member into the Friends’ society. 

It was a beautiful morning in the beginning of May — the 
mist had rolled away from the valley, and wreathed with sil- 
very clouds the sides and summits of the mountains — the air 
was sweet with the £ herald blossoms ’ of spring — and nature, 
rising from her wintry bed, was throwing on her woods and 
fields her drapery of tender green — when a carriage, contain- 
ing Mr. Lloyd, Mary Hull, and little Rebecca, stopped at 
Mrs. Harvey’s door; Jane, arrayed for a journey, stood await- 
ing it on the piazza ; old John, the basket-maker, was beside 
her, leaning on his cane, and good Mrs. Harvey was giving 
Jane’s baggage to Janies, who carried it to the carriage. 
££ Farewell, dear Jane,” said Mrs. Harvey, affectionately kiss- 
ing her ; — ££ now go, but do not forget there are other 
‘friends’ in the world, beside Quakers. Return to us soon ; 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


237 


we are all impatient to see you the h^ppy mistress of the 
house in which you was born.” 

John followed her to the carriage, and respectfully taking 
her hand and Mr. Lloyd’s — “ You’ve been my best friends,” 
said he ; “ take an old man’s blessing, whose sun, thanks to 
the Lord who brought Jemmy back ! is setting without a 
cloud. God grant you both,” he added, joining their hands, 
“ a long and a happy day. Truly says the good book, ‘ light 
is sown for the righteous, and joy for the upright in heart.’ ” 

James was the only person that did not seem to have his 
portion of the common gladness. He had, with a poor grace, 
consented to defer his nuptials till Mary’s return from Phila- 
delphia. He did not mind the time, he said, “ five or six 
weeks would not break his heart, though he had waited almost 
as long as Jacob now ; and he was not of a distrustful make ; 
but it was a long way to Philadelphia, and the Lord only 
knew wha^ might happen.” But nothing did happen ; at least 
nothing to justify our constant lover’s forebodings. 

Jane was received with cordiality into the Friends’ society, 
and their hands were joined, whose hearts were ‘knit to- 
gether.’ 

The travellers returned, in a few weeks, to , happy in 

each other, and devoting themselves to the good and happi- 
ness of the human family. Their good works shone before 
men ; and “ they seeing them, glorified their Father in 
heaven.” We dare not presume upon the good nature of our 
readers so far, as to give the detail of Mary’s wedding ; at 
which our little friend Rebecca was the happy mistress of 
ceremonies. 

There yet remains something to be told of one of the per- 
sons of our humble history, whom our readers may have for- 
gotten, but to whom Mr. Lloyd extended his kind regards — 


238 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


the poor lunatic, crazy Bet. He believed that her reason 
might be restored by skilful management — by confinement to 
one place, and one set of objects, and by the sedative influ- 
ence of gentle manners, and regular habits in her attendants. 
He induced Mary, in whose judiciousness and zeal he placed 
implicit confidence, to undertake the execution of his plan ; 
but after a faithful experiment of a few months, they were 
obliged to relinquish all hope of restoring the mind to its 
right balance. Mary said, when the weather was dull, she 
was as quiet as any body ; but if the sun shone out suddenly, 
it seemed as if its bright beams touched her brain. . A thun- 
der-storm, or a clear moonlight, would throw her back into 
her wild ways. “The poor thing,” Mary added, “had such 
a tender heart, that there seemed to be no way to harden it. 
If she sees a lamb die, or hears a mournful note from a bird, 
when she has her low feelings, she’ll weep more than some 
mothers at the loss of a child.” 

No cure could be effected ; but Mary’s house continued to 
be the favourite resort of the interesting vagrant. Her visits 
there became more frequent and longer protracted. Mary 
observed, that the excitement of her mind was exhausting 
her life, without Bet’s seeming conscious of decay of strength, 
or any species of suffering. 

The last time Mary saw her, was a brilliant night during 
the full harvest moon ; she came to her house late in the eve- 
ning ; the wildness of her eye was tempered with an affecting 
softness ; her cheek was brightened with the hectic flush that 
looks like c mockery of the tomb ’ — Mary observed her to 
tremble, and perceived that there was an alarming fluttering 
in her pulse. “ You are not well,” said she. 

“No, I am not well,” Bet replied, in a low plaintive tone ; 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


239 


u but I shall be soon — here,” said she, placing Mary’s hand on 
her heart — “ do not you feel it struggling to be free ?” 

Mary was startled — the beating was so irregular, it 
seemed that every pulsation must be the last. “ Oh !” she 
exclaimed, “ poor creature, let me put you in bed ; you are 
not fit to be sitting here.” 

“ Oh, no !” Bet replied, in the same feeble, mournful tone ; 
1 1 cannot stay here. The spirits are out by the light of the 
blessed moon. Hark ! do you not hear them, Mary ?” — and 
she sung so low that her voice sounded like distant music : 

“Sister spirit, come away !” 

“And do you not see .their white robes?” she added, pointing 
through the window to the vapour that curled along the mar- 
gin of the river, and floated on the bosom of the meadow. 

Mary called to her husband, and whispered, “ The poor 
thing is near death ; let us get her on the bed.” 

Bet overheard her. “ No, do not touch me,” she ex- 
claimed ; “ the spirit cannot rise here.” She suddenly sprang 
on her feet, as if she had caught a new inspiration, and darted 
towards the door. Mary’s infant, sleeping in the cradle, ar- 
rested her eye ; she knelt for a moment beside it, and folded 
her hands on her breast. Then rising, she said to Mary. 
“ The prayer of the dying sanctifies.” The door was open, 
and she passed through it so suddenly that they hardly sus- 
pected her intention before she was gone. The next morning 
she was discovered in the church-yard, her head resting on 
the grassy mound that covered the remains of her lover. Her 
spirit had passed to its eternal rest ! 


JtfOTE TO PAGE 126 . 


** For the story had come that Shay's men would cover their front with 

the captives .” 

The exhaustion occasioned in Massachusetts by her struggles to support 
the revolutionary contest, in which her efforts were, at least, equal to 
those of any other State, and the taxes, which, at the close of the war, 
were necessarily imposed upon the citizens by the State government* 
were the principal causes of the disturbances in 1786— 7, which are no w 
talked of by some of the older inhabitants, and particularly in the western 
part of the commonwealth, as the “ Shays war." It was so called from 
Daniel Shays, one of the principal insurgents, and now (1822) a peacea- 
ble citizen and revolutionary pensioner in the western part of the State 
of New- York. 

This rebellion is certainly a stain upon the character of Massachusetts 
— almost the only one. It may, nevertheless, serve to exhibit in a favour- 
able light the humane and orderly character of her inhabitants. If there 
were no wrongs to be redressed, there were heavy sufferings and priva- 
tions to be borne. The stimulus of the revolutionary war had not wholly 
subsided, and the vague and fanciful anticipations of all the blessings to 
be conferred by “glorious liberty,” had passed away. The people found 
that they had liberty indeed, but it was not what they had painted to 
their fancies. They enjoyed a republican government, but with it came 
increased taxation, poverty, and toil. Their means were rather strait- 
ened than enlarged. From the embarrassment and confusion of the 
times, debts had multiplied and accumulated ; courts were established, 
and the law3 were enforced. 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


241 


The organization of courts and the collection of debts, formed one of 
the principal grounds of discontent. The court-houses were attacked and 
their session sometimes prevented. The party in favour of the State gov- 
ernment, and, of course, of the support of the laws, was commonly called 
the crnrt party. An Englishman might smile at such an application of 
the term. 

The insurrectionary spirit was very general throughout the common- 
wealth ; and it might be said that the western counties were in the pos- 
session of the rebels against republicanism. It endured, however, but 
for a few months, and was chiefly put down by the voluntary and spi- 
rited exertions of the peaceable inhabitants. While it lasted, there was, 
of course, a considerable degree of license, and occasional pilfering, for 
it could hardly be called plunder : but there was little destruction of 
property, and no cruelty. Sometimes a few individuals of the court 
party, and sometimes a few Shaysites were made prisoners ; and in such 
cases they were shut up in rooms during the stay of the conquering party, 
and occasionally marched off with them on their retreat. 

It is probable that about fifteen or twenty indivituals perished in 
battle during the Shays war. Not one suffered by the sentence of a civil 
magistrate. 

The most severe engagement which occurred during the contest, took 
place in Sheffield, on the 27th of February, 1787. The government 
party was composed of militia from Sheffield and Barrington ; in number 
about eighty men, and commanded by Colonel John Ashley, of Sheffield. 
This party, hearing that the rebels had appeared in force, in Stockbridge, 
where they had committed some depredations, and taken several prison- 
ers, pursued them for some time without success, and did not fall in with 
them until their return to Sheffield, to which place the rebels had march- 
ed by a different route. The insurgents w.erf more numerous, but pos- 
sessed less confidence than the government party. This circumstance 
was every where observable during *the contest.^ Upon this occasion, as 
the most effectual protection, they placed their prisoners in front of their 
line, and between themselves and their assailants. They probably ex- 
pected a parley, and that the parties would separate without bloodshed. 
This had sometimes happened before, from the great reluctance which 
all felt to proceed to extremities /against- their neighbours and acquaint- 
ances. But Colonel Ashley was - a mdn or determined spirit, and fully 


242 


A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 


convinced that energetic measures had besome necessary, he ordered hi 3 
men to fire. They knew their friends, and remonstrated. The Colonel 
exclaimed, “ God have marcy on their souls, but pour in your fire 1” 
They did so, and after an engagement of about six minutes, the rebels 
fled. Their loss was two men killed, and about thirty, including their 
captain, wounded. The loss of the government party was two me., 
killed, and one wounded. Of the former number, one was a prisoner 
who had been forced into the front of the rebel line. 

If the remembrance of this commotion had not been preserved by the 
classical pen of Minot, its tradition would, probably, expire in one or 
two generations. 

This is the only civil war which has ever been waged in our coun- 
try, unless the war of the revolution can be so called. 





MISCELLANIES. 





% 









A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


As old friend once described to me the following scene, of 
which, in his early boyhood, he was an eye-witness, and de- 
sired me to record it. He is, even now, but slightly bent 
under the weight of more than eighty years. He has a strong 
voice, a hearty laugh, a sound memory, and other healthful 
physical attributes, that as accompanying four-score, will be 
as incredible to the descendants of the present dyspeptic gene- 
ration, as is the longevity of the antediluvians to our skep- 
tical cotemporaries. 

My friend belonged to one of the aristocratic families of 
Massachusetts. People then dared to boast that distinction. 
And even now he may claim a charter of nobility that none 
will dispute, for he bears a name illustrated by a progenitor 
who, when he wrote, had no rival, and even now has no supe- 
rior, upon that topic on which he exercised his marvellous 
intellect. 

It was on a Sabbath day, (I dare not, in this relation, use 
other than a Puritan term,) late in April, in 1776, that an 
unprecedented bustle occurred in one of the quietest villages 
of Berkshire. The stern, long Winter of our hill-country 


246 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


had just passed away. The tempests of a sterner Winter 
were beginning in our political world — a Winter whose storm 
was to drive out all old customs, observances, relations, and 
to be followed by a Spring of vigorous life, suited to our 
young country. 

The genial sunbeams of the long afternoon played on the 
few framed houses of the village, and on the Indian huts 
scattered among them, which seemed to be rooted there, as 
were the affections of their doomed masters. And did ever 
savage or civilized man dwell in that sweet valley, who did 
not cling to it as if it were in truth their mother earth ! 

Times are changed there now. Hideous telegraph poles 
deform its embowered street, and the “ whistle ” of the rail- 
car shrieks from its lowlands. But then, as now, even late 
in April, Winter lingered on the wet, cold, dull-coloured hill- 
side ; the forest trees were yet brown and naked ; but, oh ! 
how fresh and bright was the grass in the meadows — how 
deep-coloured the furrows just turned up for the corn-planting 
— how rich the green of the Winter wheat-fields — how spark- 
ling the musical stream that, in the early Spring-time, seemed 
to sing of nothing but its freedom ! And then, as my friend 
said, “ the willows, where we cut our sticks, along the Hou- 
satonic, looked as if they had been dipped in melted gold ; 
the maples were flushed with their red buds ; the air at our 
windows was so inviting with the young buds of the lilacs ! 
The girls were longing to go out to pick cresses and violets 
by the brook side ; the hens were cackling — the birds singing 
— the Beacons could not stop them ; but we children had to 
stay, silent and sad, in-doors, and study our catechisms, and 
watch — which we did more than study — the shadows, as they 
crept (how slowly !) over the valley, and up, and up, the East- 
ern hills ; and not till the last purple ray had faded from the 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


247 


very crest of the mountains, were we permitted to sally forth. 
With the setting of the sun ended ‘holy time.’ The Sabbath 
sun was in our eyes a mortal enemy — so tedious was the long 
1 holy time ’ to us. God forgive our parents that it was so !” 

On the memorable afternoon we are commemorating, my 
octogenarian friend, then a boy of seven or eight years, was 
sitting with the other children of the household, near a win- 
dow, which afforded a tempting view of the different avenues 
that converged to the village-green, which village-green was 
a dangerous competitor with the lucid “Westminster Shorter 
Catechism,” for their bright eyes — the truant eyes had wan- 
dered. 

Oh, Phoebe, how pleasant the green looks !” said the 
boy. “ I wish the moon would shine as bright as the sun 
does ; then we could see to play ball after sunset. Don’t you 
wish so, Phoebe?” 

Phoebe was a pattern Puritan child, faithful and sedate. 
Without raising her eyes, she went on, sotto voce , committing 
to memory her appointed task, which, at that moment, hap- 
pened to be the tremendous answer to the question, in the 
Shorter Westminster Catechism — the child’s spiritual bread 
and meat of that day— “ What is the misery of that estate 
whereunto man fell ?” 

“ Phoebe,” resumed her brother, “ do you believe Deacons 
were ever boys and girls, like we are ?” 

“ All mankind, by their fall, lost communion with God, 
are under His wrath and curse, and so made liable to all the 
miseries of this life, to death itself, and to the pains of hell 
for ever,” murmured Phoebe. 

“ Phoebe, Phoebe !” called out her brother again. “ I de- 
clare, there is Squire Woodhull coming out of his house, and 
Deacon Orne out of his ! Look.” 


248 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION, 


But Phoebe was immovable. 

u All mankind, by their fall,” she continued. 

“ Why see, Phoebe ! there is Captain Bradley, and Mr. 
Taylor, too ? What can it mean, Phoebe ?” 

Phoebe was as firm as Atlas. 

“ And so made liable to all the miseries of this life, to 
death itself, and to the pains of hell for ever,” &c., she re- 
iterated. 

It was worthy of observation that these familiar words of 
eternal doom made no more impression on the serene child 
than if she were repeating — u Dickery-dickery-dock,” or any 
other of Mother Goose’s lyrics. 

u Phoebe,” resumed her brother, I never saw any one like 
you ; why don’t you look ? There comes Levi Carter, and 
Joshua Lee. They have both got guns. What will Deacon 
Orne say?” 

By this time Phoebe’s attention was completely aroused. 
She closed her little blue book, and the children all clustered 
together to observe the scene, which was soon interpreted to 
them by their excellent mother, who came from her nursery, 
with her infant child, Rhoda, in her arms, beautiful then, as 
tradition has it, beautiful still, as all can testify who are ac- 
quainted with that majestic form, fresh cheek, beaming eye, 
and most serene aspect. 

The gathering on the Sabbath, so astounding to the chil- 
dren, was occasioned by the arrival of an express, bringing 
news of the battle of Lexington. An association called 
Minute Men, from the fact that they held themselves ready 
to go forth in their country’s service at a minute’s warning, 
had been formed throughout the towns of Massachusetts. 
Each man in the village had been notified to meet instantly 
on the green. The inhabitants were few, but every man ca 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


249 


pable of bearing arms, u Minute Men,” and others not thus 
enrolled, came, old and young, each with a comprehension of 
the sacred principles for which he was to contend, and for 
which he was willing to leave his- home and peril his life. 
These principles had been maturing in Anglo-Saxon minds 
from the days of King John and the Charter, and they were 
now ripened into the glorious truths proclaimed in our Decla 
ration of Independence. 

Our men were ready and eager for their work, but not 
one among them probably had the faintest imagination that 
the destinies of the world hung upon the issue of the contest 
on which they were entering. 

There were volunteers not enrolled with the Minute men, 
and the purpose of the gathering was to decide who should 
be permitted to go, and who should perform the inglorious 
duty of remaining at home, to take care of the women and 
children, and keep the Indians in order. “ I have not fired a 
gun these ten years,” said Deacon Orne, “ but I guess I can 
do it as well as my neighbours.” 

One lad nudged another, whispering, “ Did not I tell you 
the Deacon had grit for all V 1 

II If Mrs. Bradley is willing,” said her husband, the Cap- 

tain, “ there’s no man readier nor happier to go than I am,” 
he could afford to defer to his help-meet, for the little world 
of S knew their wills were one. 

II I ask no woman’s leave to do my duty,” said little gnarly 
squally Obid Allen, the well known tyrant of his household. 
“ I go.” 

“ That is doubtful yet,” said William Freeman, to whom 

the command of the minute men of S was assigned ; 

11 every one cannot have the privilege, Obid, and we must 
take such only as can be serviceable.” William Freeman 
11 * 


250 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


was a stout, tall, well-made yeoman, standing six feet two 
inches without his shoes, some forty-two or three years old, in 
the prime of manhood, a living man in the comprehensive 
sense of that term, beloved and respected in the little com- 
munity of S as no other man was. Most of the men 

were zealous patriots eager for the service. The selection 
made by Freeman, met with unanimous acquiescence. Few 
wished to dispute it, and none dared. To the astonishment 
of all, however, Obid Allen was among the picked men. This 
he explained confidentially to a friend, saying, “ Obid will be 
a wasp among us, I know, and I fear a coward — your tyrants 
at home, for the most part, are. But to tell you the truth, it 
was an opportunity to relieve his women folks, and I could 
not neglect it !” 

The dispositions for the march were promptly made. 
There was no time to be lost. They were to depart that eve- 
ning. Some among them never to return, some to homes, 
how changed ! some, themselves mournfully changed ! One 
solemn office remained before their dispersion. The children 
of the Puritans were not men to embark in a serious enter- 
prise without appealing to the great Disposer of events ; and 
now the children’s wonder was again excited by seeing the 
Pastor descending the long straight road from the hill over- 
hanging the village where his house, like a watch-tower on 
Zion, stood. He was attended by a young friend who was 
then residing with him. He was himself then still young, 
though he had already been ten years on a ministry which he 
was destined to continue in that favoured place, in zeal and 
purity, for more than sixty years ! “ Why, mother,” exclaimed 
little Phoebe, “ Mr. West is not going to fight, is he? a minis- 
ter, and such a little man too !” 

u Little,” exclaimed her brother, u I guess he is as tall as 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


251 


Alexander, for Master Day says * Alexander was not taller 
than he is.” 

“ I don’t know, my child ; but don’t, my son, let your mind 
run upon heathen people. Attend to what is going on.” 

“ I guess Mr. Oakley will go, don’t you Phoebe ?” whis- 
pered the rebuked child to his sister — “ he is so tall, and 
beautiful, and has such black eyes ! he is something like a 
soldier !” 

Whether Mr. Oakley would have gone or not, had the op- 
portunity been offered him, we cannot say, for the quota was 
already made up. Perhaps he was glad to avoid the necessity 
of a choice, for though the colony was the land of his birth 
and to be his future residence, more than half his life had been 
passed in England, and it was natural that his affections 
should be divided. That they leaned to the wrong side, the 
villagers all thought, and as he approached, there were whis- 
pers among them. a He is a friend of Mr. West, or we would 
give him a piece of our mind !” “ This is no time for Tories.” 
u No, nor for fine gentlemen with gloves and ruffles, we must 
handle things without mittens now-a-days.” “ Hush, boys !” 
said William Freeman, who stood a little apart with this knot 
of free speakers, u don’t be saucy to Mr. Oakley, he is my 
friend as well as the minister’s — he is something more than a 
fine gentleman — a scholarly man, and none the worse for not 
wanting to fight his cousins and friends whose bread and salt 
he has eaten on the other side. — You have come in good 
time, sir,” he added, advancing and giving his hand to the 
Pastor — •“ every thing is settled, the men are ready to march, 
and we wait only for you to ask the Lord’s blessing on our 
endeavours.” 

The twilight was near, the deepening shadows stealing 
over the valley typified the dark passage through which the 


252 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


people were to pass, the sun beams on the eastern hills the 
light beyond it. The men leaning on their guns and staves 
arranged themselves in a circle around the minister — a group 
of Indian men and women had gathered, and stood on one 
side listening reverently. The minister prayed and wept. 
To the last of his long good life he was marked by a sensi- 
bility that gushed forth in sympathy for all his people ; the 
just and unjust — saints and sinners, all shared a heart wide 
enough for all. 

The boy of whom we have spoken, was permitted by his 
mother to go out and listen to the service. No wonder the 
scene never passed from his memory. 

That war was thus fitly begun in the self-devotion and 
self-sacrifice of thoughtful fathers, faithful husbands, brothers 
and sons, and sanctified by the prayers of holy men which was 
for self-government, an equality of rights and privileges — the 
freedom and happiness of all. The battle was fought on their 
mother earth, about their own homesteads. On the other 
side the soldiers were a good part mercenaries, and aliens 
from the household for which they fought, and, for the most 
part, ignorant and brutish men. 


A HOME SCENE. 

“ I have no time to give any directions, Sylvy,” said William 
Freeman to his sister, a tall, gaunt, elderly woman. “ You 
know full as well as I how to take care of every thing — the 
horses, cattle, pigs and hens. You’ll give them all plenty to 
eat, for that’s your nature, and that’s the main chance. Ben 
will be a plague — boys always are — but he being motherless, 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


253 


you won’t feel it so much. Don’t humour him too much, 
Sylvy. Don’t go out, as you did last winter in the snow, and 
feed the horses that he went to bed and forgot. Take care ! 
don’t tie up the portmanteau yet, I want to put this in.” 

“ What is it, brother ?” asked Sylvy, who kept her head 
averted that her brother might not see the tears that were 
pouring down her cheeks. 

“Well, its Lucy’s profile that Staunton Oakley cut for 
me last week — it is only an outline, but I can fill it up with 
blue eye and round cheeks, and a sweet little fair child’s 
face. You think I am foolish?— I, more than forty !” 

“ No, no, brother, don’t I set by her almost as much as 
you do — poor little dove.” 

u Yes, Sylvy, and that is a comfort to me now ; if it tore 
my heart in two to leave Lucy and Willie, I should go, but 
now I go cheerfully ; for I know you will always consider for 
them. I confide them to you, and go in peace. Lucy is a 
helpless little thing, but it is my fault. She was so young 
when we married that she has always seemed to me like a 
child.” 

“ Oh, never mind, brother, it is easy to care for her — truly 
the pleasure and comfort of my life.” 

“ I have n’o words to thank you, Sylvy 5 but words are 
nothing between you and I, I have bid her good-bye. It has 
taken the strength out of me ; It makes me feel like a poor 
soldier,” and he wiped away his tears, as he added, “ This 
little woman makes such a child of me. I left her with Wil- 
lie on her lap, both sobbing ; I hear them now. By the way, 
Sylvy, I have forgotten to tell you that I have engaged 
Staunton Oakley to teach Will.” 

“To teach Willie, brother ? Willie is but six. I have 


254 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


heard that Mr. Staunton Oakley is a finished scholar. Surely 
he is not a suitable teacher for Willie.” 

“ Maybe not. But Oakley is halting about his profession. 
He is fallen under suspicion as a Tory, and he would like to 
stay quietly here and mind his books. So I offered him his 
board for teaching Willie ; but if it will be a trouble to you, 
Sylvy — ” 

“ To me ! What trouble can it be to me to get victuals 
for four instead of three % No, truly, I am glad he is coming. 
He will be company for Lucy — poor little dove !” 

A wagon drove to the door. William Freeman threw in 
his portmanteau, turned and looked around for the last time. 
Every object was daguerreotyped on his heart. He kissed 
his sister’s coarse cheek as fervently as if she were the love- 
liest woman in creation, and knocking with his iron knuckles 
on his wife’s bed-room door, he said, in a cheering tone — 
“ God bless you dear, dearest little wifie,” dashed off his tears 
and departed. 

As our story has little to do with the military career of 
the commander of the little detachment from L., but is con- 
fined to the domestic incidents of his life, we must take 

A RETROSPECT. 

William Freeman’s body, mind and heart, were in that 
state which, in our present hacknied phrase, would be called 
normal. Capricious nature — no, this is but vulgar slang — 
nature is but another name for the great Creator of perfect 
works ; not nature, then, but the transmitted wrongs done to 
her so often, effect such incongruous combination as a heart 
of infinite expansiveness in a half-developed body, a gigantic 
intellect, like Pope’s, Napoleon’s, or Alexander Hamilton’s, 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


255 


in a stinted, almost dwarfish frame, that when the world has 
assurance of a man in the highest intellectual and moral at- 
tributes, with their fitting majestic investment, he receives, 
as William Freeman did, the tribute of trust, and love, and 
reverence. Freeman was of a good old English stock, but the 
branch in this country had, by adverse accidents, been re- 
duced to an humble condition of life, and William and his 
sister Sylvy, four or five years older than himself, were left, 
at an early age, with no inheritance but a sterile farm, on the 
cold sea-shore of Massachusetts ; this they exchanged for one 
in better position and condition in a lovely valley in the most 
western county of the same State. This, by the joint manage- 
ment of brother and sister, improved rapidly in value and 
productiveness. As it was the good custom of those times 
for a man to take a help-mate so soon as he had a roof to 
shelter her, it was a subject of discussion among the male and 

female gossips of S , why William Freeman remained a 

bachelor ? Some fancied it was from regard to Miss Sylvy, who 
was a 4 set-body,’ and had too long governed their joint house- 
hold to bear a deposition from her feminine supremacy. .But 
they misjudged. Miss Sylvy was as far above the little com- 
petitions and meannesses of domestic rivalries as any man. 
In truth, she was remarkably exempt from any feminine pe- 
culiarities. Of the two, her brother had more of the tender- 
ness and softness, and far more of the gentleness and polish 
that characterizes the minor sex. Sylvy was true as steel, 
faithful, kind-hearted, and entirely in thought, word and deed, 
devoted to her brother ; but a more masculine creature has 
seldom appeared in woman’s form. So she was made, and 
she was content with nature’s decrees, never opposing them 
by any compromises, or palliations of dress or habit. If Sylvy 
had lived in our day she would have deemed a women’s rights 


256 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


convention a superfluous mooting of a foolish question. HeT 
might was her right. She was a woman of action, doing 
cheerfully and well the duty nearest to her, and not disturb- 
ing herself by a theoretical claim to those for which she was 
neither qualified by nature nor education. Her life had one 
ruling purpose, the advancement of her brother’s interest and 
happiness — one absorbing affection, not expressed in words, 
but told in the deeds of every day. 

As William Freeman’s protracted bachelorship was a 
mystery not to be solved by people so ingenious, earnest and 
indefatigable as his neighbours of S , we should not at- 

tempt it. He might have had an early disappointment “ down 
East,” but nothing could be more unlikely. Any woman be- 
loved by this magnificent-looking man, frank, affectionate, 
good-humoured and agreeable, could not choose but to love 
him. He deferred, on all suitable occasions, to his sister’s 
wishes, but he had no fear of her to prevent his doing what 
was right ; and, besides, she had been heard to say more than 
once that, “ as to marrying, that was not in her way, but she 
wondered brother put it off — it was a pity for the girls !” 
She now and then hinted to him that life was going on, and 
its great work not done ! Still he remained in obstinate, in- 
explicable content — a man sound in mind, body and estate, 
and yet a bachelor ! 

Freeman’s nearest neighbours were the Scotts. They were 
a head-over-heels family, with some eight or ten children, 
that scrabbled their way up into life as they could. Besides 
these, there was a little orphan niece, Lucy Clay, a fair, de- 
licate, gentle creature, who looked, among the nut-brown 
Scotts, as a Saxon child might in a Gipsy camp, or a pearl 
on common earth. She naturally attracted William Free- 
man’s observation. He loved children, and Lucy soon be- 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


257 


came a favourite. He gave her rides ; he took her to his hay 
field ; she was permitted to tumble his hay-cocks, and always 
rode home on the load — the prettiest flower that ever grew, 
he said, in meadow, or garden. Miss Sylvy was in nowise 
addicted to pets ; dogs she kept^strictly to their official duty, 
and cats she tolerated only as necessary evils ; but brother’s 
plaything, as she called little Lucy, soon became her weakness 
— the first she bad ever shown. Nothing was forbidden her 
— nothing was good enough for her — she, who never before, 
was jealous of any thing, was jealous of Lucy’s rights in the 
rough democracy of the Scott’s household. She held to 
children being hardy, but she was alarmed if Lucy dampened 
her little feet, and finally, upon the little girl letting fall a 
silent tear on being rather rudely summoned home by one of 
“ Scott’s boys,” Sylvy could bear it no longer, and she 
distinctly proposed to her brother that Lucy should have a 
home with them. “ The Scotts,” she said, “ were overrun 
with children — she did not see as brother would ever have a 
family of his own — Mrs. Scott did not take suitable care of 
her own children — little Lucy, poor little dove, needed the 
best of care.” 

There was no need of multiplying arguments to William 
Freeman. They fell upon a willing mind, and little Lucy 
was forthwith begged as a boon, and dropped off, by the 
Scotts, as a burden. We said that Miss Sylvy was not, like 
most women-kind, addicted to pets, but now it seemed that 
all the womanly weakeness, if it must be so called, that, with 
others of her sex is diffused over a lifetime, had accumulated, 
to be lavished on her “ little dove” — the first soft epithet she 
was known to use. Flower-beds were sown for Lucy — chick- 
ens were reared for her — kittens were permitted, and dove- 
cotes were built over the porch. 


258 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


William Freeman, in his domain, was not less indulgent 
William, in rustic phrase, was a great reader, but now he 
could not fully enjoy his hook unless Lucy were sitting by 
him, stroking her kittens, stringing flowers, or knitting a 
garter, the hardest task Miss Sylvy ever laid on her. If he 
drove out she was beside him, permitted to hold the whip, or 
take the reins ; if he sat on the porch smoking, (young men 
of that day smoked their pipes as they now do their cigars,) 
she sat beside him. She was a luxury in the house, and like 
other luxuries, came to be more essential than “ necessaries.” 
She lived in a placid, perennial contentment, the inward 
motions of her heart harmonizing with the symmetry of her 
lovely face and form. When she was seventeen William 
Freeman was thirty-five ; about this time he became abstract- 
ed and fitful ; he lost his colour and his appetite. “ It was 
unaccountable,” Miss Sylvy said, “ how brother was 1 running 
down.’ ” 

Suddenly there was a change ; he was brighter, happier, 
handsomer than ever, and Miss Sylvy who never dreamed of 
any weaving of sentimental fabrics among her domestic looms, 
was astounded by the communication that Lucy was to be 
her brother’s wife. She laughed for half an hour. — “ Why, 
what is the matter, Sylvy?” said her brother — “you don’t 
refuse your consent ?” 

“ Brother ! No, indeed ; but it seems so odd — little 
Lucy !” 

“Yes; like the bee, she is little; but her fruit is the 
chief of sweet things. Sylvy.” 

“ And, you may say more than that, brother ; unlike the 
bee, she has no sting. Well, it’s just right ; and, if I were 
not the dumb thing I am, I should have thought of it before. 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


259 


Lucy would have married — gone away — how in the world 
could we have lived without her ?” 

The bans were proclaimed, to the infinite surprise of the 

good people of S , who made more than a nine days’ wonder 

of it ; all opining that William Freeman might have made a 
much more advantageous match, and saying that, “ if they 
were he, they should not have chosen such a ‘ helpless little 
piece’ as Lucy Clay.” But, they were not he ; and nothing 
was more natural than for his generous nature to match his 
strength with her weakness, to extend his protection to her 



Never did a match of such apparent disparity prove hap- 
pier than his, for the seven years that followed, and up to the 
time of the departure we have recorded. 

Here we hesitate to go farther. We would fain linger in 
this paradise of a happy home. But, change comes to all, and 
happy should they esteem themselves to whom it comes in 
the common providential forms of sickness, death, and 
pecuniary trial. 

The years went on — every month, every day, and every 
hour, marked by William Freeman’s services to his country. 
He was rapidly advanced to a colonelcy. We have nothing 
to do with his public career ; but insomuch as it was inter- 
woven with his domestic history. Others may have equal- 
led him in courage and conduct — none surpassed him ; 
and few equalled him in his minute attention to the wants of 
his men, in his fatherly care of them, and in his general 
humanity. 

How matters were getting on at home may be indicated 
by the following letters — the first from his son, then eight 
years old : — 


260 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


“Honoured and dear Father, 

“ Mr. Allen came home three weeks ago, and said it was 
not sure you would he a colonel ; but Mr. Oakley saw it in 
the paper, yesterday, that you are one, and I hurraed and 
hurraed till my little mother said I should make her deaf. 
And mother dressed up, and put the blue ribbon you sent 
her, round her neck, and looked so beautiful ; Mr. Oakley 
said the ribbon was just a match for her eyes, and then such 
a rosy colour came into her cheeks. 

“ The little brown heifer has calved ; and, though it’s such 
dreadful cold weather that we can’t see through the windows, 
Aunt Sylvy will go out and milk her, to keep her gentle. 
She says boys will be boys, and she can’t trust Ben. Oh, she 
keeps Ben so busy, for she says — 

‘Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle boys to do 1’ 

“You know why I put the mark under boys, sir? Mr. 
Oakley teaches me about that. I believe he tries the same 
way to keep me out of mischief that Aunt Sylvy does with 
Ben. Don’t you think I improve in my writing, sir? He 
makes me write every day ; and I study geography ; and he 
draws maps, and he shows me on the map just where all our 
soldiers are marching, and where the British and Scotch and 
Irish come from, and the Hessians. I think they had better 
stay at home, and leave us to take care of our own farm — don’t 
you, dear father ? 

“ Ben and I brought in thirteen eggs yesterday, though it 
was so cold. Aunt Sylvy feeds the hens high, I can tell you, 
sir. I don’t believe there ever was such a woman as Aunt 
Sylvy. She takes care of every thing. She comes into our 
bed-room and tucks up dear little mother, and then she 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


261 


comes to my trundle-bed and tucks me in ; and she warms 
mother’s bed with the great warming-pan ; and she warms 
Mr. Oakley’s, but she does not warm mine, because she says 
she means to make a man of me. I think I am too much of 
a man already to sleep in a trundle-bed, but then I sleep 
there to be near my little mother, if she wants any thing. 
That is right, is it not, sir ? 

u Is not Obed Allen hateful, father ? He came here 
yesterday. Aunt Sylvy was weaving. There was a fire in 
the dwelling-room ; but Aunt Sylvy didn’t ask him to go in 
there. W e don’t often have a fire there ; for Aunt Sylvy 
thinks so much of the wants of the poor soldiers, that she 
saves every way, to have the more to send them. So Mr. 
Allen sat down in the kitchen, and asked Aunt Sylvy all 
sorts of questions. Sometimes she answered 4 Yes,’ and some- 
times 4 No,’ and sometimes she made no answer at all, but 
kept driving her shuttle. 

44 4 Mrs. Freeman was not much hurt last evening, was she?’ 
he said. 

44 4 No,’ says Aunt Sylvy. 

44 4 1 heard her head was bleeding when he brought her 
home — was it V 

44 4 No.’ 

44 Don’t you think, father, he might have said Mr. Oak- 
ley, instead of he ? 

44 He went on : 

44 4 It’s dangerous sport, sledding down hill, and some folks 
might call it unbecoming and unsuitable for a married wo- 
man in her situation.’ 

44 Aunt Sylvy looked black as thunder, but she didn’t 
speak. I wanted to shoot him. Was it wrong, sir ? Now, 
sir, I will tell you just how it was. Last night was a beau- 


262 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


tiful moonlight ; and there had been a little thaw and sudden 
freezing, and the trees were coated with ice, and all hanging 
with icicles, and every bush and weed and spear of grass spar- 
kled as if it was hung with jewels ; and I begged mother to go 
out with me and let me coast her down the little hill, the 
smooth path, all glaze ice now, between the laurel-bushes that 
are as green as they were when the flowers were on them last 
summer. So, after I had urged her, dear little mother wrap- 
ped up, and she and Mr. Oakley came on to the hill. Ho ask- 
ed her first to go down with him, but she chose me. When 
we were half way down, she got so frightened that she jumped 
off and struck her head, and stunned herself ; and Mr. Oak- 
ley took her in his arms and brought her home — you know 
he could easy do it, little mother is so light. She soon got 
over it, and to-day is as well as ever. 

“ I can’t think how Obed Allen knew any thing about it, 
for all the boys were sledding down the long hill. But Aunt 
Sylvy says some people are all eyes and ears to no good. 

tt Then old Allen tried who he could peck at next. He 
said Mrs. Orne was spoiling her children in the Deacon’s ab- 
sence ; he said he went into Mrs. Orne’s to carry some let- 
ters he brought from the Deacon, and there was one for little 
Josh, and the boy capered and shouted as if his father had 
sent him a gold piece. It being bedtime, his sister Nancy 
took him to put him to bed, and pretty soon she came back, 
laughing, and said Josh was so bewildered with joy, that, 
after he had said his prayers, he said , 4 Oh, Nancy, I don’t 
know whether I said my prayers or Jack Sprat !’ 

44 4 He ought to have been flogged for such profanity,’ old 
Allen said , 4 and Nancy for laughing at it.’ 

<c Now, dear father, if you have a chance do tell Deacon 
Orne, and see if he don’t laugh too. 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


263 


“ 4 If the boy, in the bewilderment of his innocent joy, 
did say Jack Sprat, it was more acceptable, I guess,’ says 
Aunt Sylvy, 4 than some folks’ prayers !’ 

“ I know she meant Obed Allen’s, but he did not take 
the hint. Pretty soon he nodded his head towards the dwell- 
ing-room door, and said : 

et ' e I should think she would want to come out, and in- 
quire about the Colonel, instead of sitting to hear him read 
verses.’ 

“ 1 If you mean my mother, Mr. Allen,’ I said, 1 she has 
had good long letters from my father, and I guess she don’t 
want to hear any thing you can say.’ 

“He looked cross enough, and then said : 

“ 1 Some folks don’t feel as other folks feel, but I should 
not want that fine fellow sleeping in my best bed, and read- 
ing to my wife, while I was out in camp.’ 

“ I don’t know what made Aunt Sylvy so angry at this, 
but she threw down her shuttle, opened the outside door 
wide, and said — 

“ ‘ Walk out , Obed Allen, and never walk in again !’ 

“ And as he went out, she said — 

“ 1 Honour and shame is in talk, and the tongue of a man 
is his fall !’ 

“ It was good enough for him, any way, was not it, sir ? 

“ Well, sir, I believe I have told you about every thing, 
only that poor old Daisy is on her last legs, Aunt Sylvy says, 
and she has halter-broken the colt herself ; and Mr. Oakley 
don’t study any more at Mr. West’s, but he is studying law. 
He is a very kind man — very good to me, and to dear little 
mother, and to Aunt Sylvy ; but there is one thing I don’t 
like — he lies in bed in the morning till we have all done 


264 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


breakfast, and Aunt Sylvy has it to get over again. That is 
not like you, dear father. 

“ Now I have nothing more at present, sir; only Widow 
Darley is dead ; and Tom, our oldest cat, has disappeared. 

“ Your ever loving and dutiful child, 

William Freeman, Jr. 

“ N. B. There is first-rate skating on the big pond.” 

Mrs. Freeman to Colonel Freeman. 

“ Dear and Honoured Husband : — Your £ little wifie’ (I 
am glad you still call me so) thanks you from the bottom of 
her heart for your long letters. How kind of you, after your 
long days’ marches, and your hard, hard work, to sit up at 
night to write to us, and especially to me, who am but a poor 
and short letter-writer myself. Oh, my dear heart, when will 
this tedious war be over, and you be at home again 1 Not that 
every thing does not go on very well. Dear sister Sylvy sees 
to every thing, does every thing. I am a poor thriftless wife 
to you, and I am afraid I shall not even be a mere ornamental 
piece of furniture — a £ jim crack’ of William Freeman’s (as you 
remember who, called me), if you do not soon come home. I 
am getting thinner and thinner, and you will have to put on 
your spectacles (I cannot believe you wear spectacles !) to 
see me. 

“ Our dear boy is going on wonderfully under Mr. Oak- 
ley’s tuition. He is very faithful to him. Mr. Oakley goes 
out very little. He is disliked as a Tory, and looked upon 
with suspicion, and always hears something disagreeable. 

t: Our people are always talking of the war, or their crops 
or their cattle ; so he finds it pleasanter with Willie and me. 
I believe he has made up his mind to the law, but he does 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


265 


not much incline to any profession, and I should not wonder 
if he spent his life in reading and writing, and in a sort of 
dreamy way. 

u I shall send by Allen, the cots you requested me to 
make for Captain Stiles. There are two dozen. I hope they 
will make his mutilated hand look as well as ever. At any 
rate any lady in the land would be proud to take it. 

“ Look in the corners of your handkerchiefs, my honour- 
ed husband, and see if you know whose hair I have marked 
them with. It was taken from that curl you used to say too 
much of for such a silly little head as mine. 

“ Sister will tell you all about things, and I remain ever 
your do-little , dutiful, and loving c little wifie,’ Lucy.” 

“ P. S. I have scraped all the old linen in the house into 
lint, and sister will forward as you desire, by first convey- 
ance. 

“ P. S. again. Mr. Oakley sends his kindest remem- 
brance. I read to him what you said about him ; 1 a faithful 
friend is a strong defence’ — he looked up in a startled way, 
as if he had never heard that precious scripture.” 

Miss Sylvy Freeman to Colonel Freeman. 

11 Dear and Respected Brother : — Your letter was 
duly received two weeks after date. I thank you for 
its approving words ; also for your profitable advice, concern- 
ing the farm, stock, and so forth, which shall — the Lord 
willing — be attended to. 

“ But truly, brother, you are the faithful one to family as 
well as country. If your head-work and hand-work is in 
camp, your heart is in your own home ; and mine seems as if 
it would burst when I read your loving words to Lucy and 
12 


266 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


Willie, and to me. But I ain’t one that talks about feeling, 
so I proceed to outside things. I have found the great con- 
veniency of turning round the shed to front south. It has, 
I believe, saved the lives of the young stock this winter. Its 
been a cracking winter, but the rougher it is the tougher I 
grow ; and truly, brother, the older I grow the lighter every 
thing seems, as it were, that I can do for you and yours. 
The Lord hath greatly blessed me in this, that when I do 
good, I know to whom I do it. c 

11 The wool has turned out remarkable — partly owing to 
there being no waste, having sheared myself. The finest I 
selected for your new suit, and I would not give it for the 
best broadcloth woven in old Eugland. Lucy has a gown 
from the same fleece, and which I dyed before pulling, a deep 
crimson, with a dye of old Kaleny’s, and she looks like a bird 
in it. I could not help saving off a Sunday suit for Willie, 
the dutifullest boy that ever lived — the boldest — the best. 
The restfof the wool I have done with as you desired ; and 
the rolls of flannel-cloth are to be forwarded by the .commit- 
tee to your poor soldiers that you say shiver with cold, and 
never with fear. The Lord help them through. 

“ As soon as the spring opens, the Committee will see to 
sending off the surplus potatoes, beans, &c., of which we have 
a plentiful lot, to some part where they will be of use to the 
army. I shall send also to you, a box of good cotton-wick 
dips. I made the same for Mr. Oakley’s use — he often read- 
ing late at night to Lucy, and thereby trying his eyes. He 
is a kind man — faithful to Willie. I greatly fear he will 
never do much for himself. Some weeks he will be a lawyer, 
and then, when peace comes, he will go back to England and 
enter the church ; and then, he will give himself up to a wan- 
dering life, and go to Egypt and the far East. And so he 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


267 


talks — as changeable as a weather-cock. It was a pity they 
spoilt him in England. If lie had been brought up to work, 
he might have been made a man of. But, I don’t know ; I 
am afeard his laziness is in the bone — you can’t make strong 
cloth out of rotten flax. But, any how, it’s a fine opportunity 
to have such a scholarly man to teach our Willie, and to 
be company to our little Lucy, and read poetry to her, and 
such kind of cakes and gingerbread , and keep her content, as 
it were, and cheerful, while you are away. But a man should 
be a man, and gird on his sword for one side or the other ; or, in 
these times, handle the axe, and reap the field ; and £ hate not 
laborious work — which the Most High hath ordained.’ But 
he is a beautiful young man, for all — pleasant spoken — and 
we are as happy a family as we can be when the noble chief 
and head is gone. 

“ So, dear brother, I remain faithfully yours, till death, 

“ Sylvy Freeman.” 

The above letters, slightly abridged, from those preserved 
in the family archives, indicate sufficiently the condition of 
things in William Freeman’s family in the third year of his 
absence. They satisfied his heart — amid all the trials, strug- 
gles and privations of his military life, his affections settled 
in peace over his home. It seemed to him a little kingdom 
of his own, where the sun always shone, and into whose rest 
he should enter as soon as his work for his country was over. 

His magnanimity, his boldness, and perhaps more than 
these qualities that belong to physical health and strength ; 
his eminent good sense, his charming good humour, and his 
indefatigable humanity, won the love of his companions in 
arms, and drew confidence and favours from the highest quar- 
ters. His career was a most active and successful one. 


268 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


The only time he was ever known to lose his self-com- 
mand, and with it, as he afterwards confessed, a portion of 
his self-respect, was on occasion of a -visit from Allen, after 

his return from S . Allen had attained the place of 

sutler in the Army — an office admirably adapted to his 
taste and genius. Freeman had often detected, and corrected 
Allen’s petty impositions and overreachings, but had never 
lost his temper, and the scurvy sutler had no fear of excit 
ing his anger. 

u Why, Colonel, you don’t ask after your folks,” said 
Allen. 

“ No, I have letters from them.” 

“ Yes, but letters don’t tell every thing.” 

“ They tell me all I wish to hear — and just what I wish.” 

11 It’s pretty judicious to be satisfied with them, may be.” 

There was something in Allen’s manner that conveyed 
more than met the ear. 

“ Have you bad news ? — speak — don’t hesitate — speak — 
I command you.” 

“ Why, Colonel ! we ain’t on duty.” 

“ Tell me what you know — what have you heard ? Is my 
wife sick? my boy? my sister?” 

“ Oh, no, no ! nothing like that.” 

w Why scare me then, man ! I suppose one of my horses 
is dead — or my cattle — they may all die — if the blessed 
God keep hearty my little family. Yes, though the flock 
be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the 
stalls, yet will I rejoice in the Lord, and joy in the gifts He 
has given me.” 

“ Don’t mount too high a horse, Colonel ; pride goes before 
a fall. I suppose there is something in a family that some 
men care for besides enjoying health ?” 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


269 


“ What in the name of goodness are you driving at, 
Allen? Were you at my house? — did you see my family?” 

“ I saw Miss Sylvy, and your boy ; he is a stout, healthy 
lad — but he wants your correcting — he’s for’ard, and free- 
spoken.” 

u Did you not see my wife ?” 

“ N — o — no. Not exactly see her — I heard them talking 
and laughing in the dwelling-room — she and that — and that 
genteel spark you keep there.” 

“ Then they were all well, and at home, and cheerful?” 

“ Yes, that’s true — some folks think something too cheer- 
ful.” 

“ And why ? — speak plainer. Allen, or I’ll shake your mean- 
ing out of you.” 

Allen saw the Colonel was not a man to receive inuendoes. 
u Well, then,” he said, “ if I must speak, I must. Folks up 
there think it ain’t every man that would be willing to leave a 
woman, young enough to be his daughter, and the handsomest 
woman in all the country round, to keep company month in 
and month out — year in and year out, with a British-bred 
Tory spark — a picture of a man !” 

“ Is that all ?” said Colonel Freeman, not a shade darken- 
ing his hopeful, trustful face. 

“Well, no, not quite all ; some folks talk, and some folks 
think more than they talk.” 

“ Hold your infamous tongue !” cried Colonel Freeman. 
The Colonel’s quarters were in a farm-house. His door opened 
upon a narrow strip of level ground which descended some ten 
or twelve feet, precipitously to the road. He opened the 
door, seized Allen by the collar, and thrust him out with such 
force that he went down the bank, head over heels, to the 
road, to the infinite delight of a dozen spectators who knew 


270 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


him, detested him, and happened to be passing at the 
moment. 

Colonel Freeman was remarkable, even among his self-con- 
trolling countrymen, for his equal temper. It was not with 
him, as with them, the equal pressure on all sides, that kept 
him subdued and quiet, but it was a magnanimity of nature — 
an atmosphere too pure and high for storms. 

When one of the spectators who had witnessed his prac- 
tical rebuke said, “ If you had broken the fellow’s neck you 
would have served him right.” 

“ No, no,” replied the Colonel. “ I am sorry I did it — 
sorry I put my hand upon him — it wasn’t right — the poor, 
weak, bandy-legged, miserable detestable scoundrel that he is 
— he is not worth it.” 

Three months elapsed, when Colonel Freeman received a 
letter from his sister, for the most part detailing the prosperi- 
ty of the farm and household, and closing thus : 

“ I am loth to disturb your mind, brother, but it’s right 
you should know the great change that has taken place in the 
family. Our dear little Lucy has got all of a nerve. No 
wonder, you so long absent, and exposed to so many dangers. 
She was fractious for a week, and did not speak to any of us 
— not even to Willie — and suddenly Mr. Oakley determined 
to leave ; his feelings being grated, I suppose, she having 
refused for many days to see him. I did not ask questions. 
He did see her before going. I heard her cry so that it most 
broke my heart. He went — and he told Willie he had 
obtained a pass to New- York, and expected to go from there, 
by the first opportunity, to England. Poor Willie is down- 
hearted — he is writing to you. But cheer up, brother, ‘ It’s 
a long lane that never turns,’ and when you come home all 
will go smooth again.” 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


271 


Willie’s mother had charged him to say nothing to his 
father of her dejection, and he did not, but lamented griev- 
ously the departure, and loss of his tutor. 

Colonel Freeman knew that his wife was of a delicate an un- 
susceptible constitution. He willingly and lovingly believed 
that his sister was right in her suggestion — that Lucy’s 
nerves had been weakened by anxiety, and, recalling Allen’s 
suggestions, he thought it probable that the unkind surmises 
of her neighbors had reached her ears, and that she had 
decided on parting with Mr. Oakley, and not being able from 
motives of delicacy to tell him why ; and, not willing to dis- 
tress her husband with her perplexities, she had appeared 
wayward and dejected. He immediately wrote her a letter 
full of tenderness, and told her that the moment he could 
arrange his affairs, he should make her a visit. 

But to do this was impossible. The military affairs of 
the country became more and more perplexed, and the duties 
more and more imperative. Colonel Freeman was not a man 
to defer his duty to his country to the indulgence of his 
domestic claims and affections. From month to month, and 
week to week, he planned to go home, and was disappointed. 
In the mean time no extraordinary news came from his family. 
Miss Sylvy never lost an opportunity of writing. She grew 
more and more minute in her accounts of her farming econ- 
omy, and said less and less of ‘ poor little Lucy,’ as she now 
invariably designated her. What she did say was the truth, 
but in the least alarming form she could put it. u Poor little 
Lucy’s spirits don’t gain.” “ The poor little woman keeps to 
her room and says little — her appetite don’t improve.” “ I 
hope, brother, you’ll excuse poor little Lucy not writing. She 
is low in strength, and dreadful low spirited.” So on, and so 
on, from month to month. But what was more painful to 


272 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


Colonel Freeman was that his son, whose letters had been 
pervaded with notices of his mother, now never mentioned 
her — and that he persevered in his silence even after his father, 
again and again, reproached him with it. Alas ! for the 
poor boy. 

At last, and unexpectedly at last, came to the happy 
Colonel, the power to suspend his command for a short time, 
and having obtained leave of absence, he joyfully set his face 
homeward. 

He had, till now, as well as he could, turned aside 
thoughts of home. Now, permitted, they overpowered and 
possessed his whole being. Happiness is the health of the 
spirit, and in his sound nature the tendencies were so strong 
to it, that anxieties and fears fled from him as demons from 
daylight. To his happy anticipations his home was the home 
he had left. His appearance would at once restore his wife 
— and all would be as it had been, with the added joy of 
meeting. His return had been so sudden to himself, that he 
had not announced or even intimated it to his family, but 
when within a few miles of home, it occurred to him that his 
unexpected appearance might be too much for his little nerv- 
ous wife, and he sent forward a courier with a note to his 
sister. The man was unacquainted with the country — he 
^took a wrong road, and the Colonel, driving rapidly and 
eagerly forward, arrived before him. He turned up to his 
own gate. His horses were grazing in the paddock next to 
his garden ; he did not see them. Ben, grown from boyhood 
to manhood, turned his oxen, who were drawing home a load 
of hay, to let the Colonel pass, and grinned joyfully at his 
master, but the Colonel did not speak to him, so full was his 
heart of the dear people within. He entered through the 
kitchen. There was no one there, but every thing was just as 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


273 


he had left it ; and he paused for an instant, with a feeling 
that the long gap of absence was closed, annihilated. It was 
but an instant, and his heart swelling, and his strong hand 
trembling, he opened the ‘ dwelling-room’ door. There, too, 
was vacancy, and silence. For the first time an apprehension 
entered the Colonel’s mind, like the sudden coming of a cloud 
in the clear sky, a fear, an indefinable dread. He paused — 
listened. He heard no sound. His wife’s bed-room was be- 
yond, and opened out of the dwelling-room. His old dog 
“ Bose” was lying at the door. He opened his eyes, and 
evidently recognized his master, for he vehemently wagged 
his tail, but without moving, or making the slightest noise. 
“ Not even my dog moves to meet me !” flashed through the 
Colonel’s mind. Who could comprehend, explain or limit 
the feelings of that poor old animal who at that moment 
blended servant and friend? The Colonel shoved him aside 
with his foot and opened wide the door. It was the middle 
of a July afternoon, the room was darkened — one of the 
window blinds being left just open enough to admit the ne- 
cessary light. 

The Colonel’s wife was stretched on the bed, covered only 
with a sheet, and white as the sheet. Her eyes were closed. 
Her beautiful curling hair lay in tangled masses on the 
pillow, her arms were outstretched, and her hands tight 
clasped over her head. This was the only indication that 
life was still there. Their boy, Willie, sat close to the bed- 
side of his mother, with his back to the door. “ Hush, 
doctor !” he rather breathed, than said, “ mother is sleeping 
and then turning round and seeing it was not the doctor, and 
was his father, for he instantly recognized him, he sprang into 
his arms, buried his face in his father’s bosom, and tried, but 
alas ! tried in vain, to suppress his sobs. One other object 
12 * 


274 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


had caught William Freeman’s eye, and he, who had never 
flinched at the cannon’s mouth, now shook like a smitten 
woman. His sister Sylvy was sitting at the farthest extrem- 
ity of the room, with a new-born baby on her lap. Her eyes 
once met her brother’s — then fell, and she remained silent, 
and motionless. 

The whole story was told. The iron entered the husband’s 
— father’s soul. He reeled, and involuntarily grasped the post 
of the bedstead. His wife awoke, opened her eyes and fixed 
them on him. This steadied him. She gazed intently for 
half a minute. Her glance seemed to burn into his very soul. 

She uttered a loud, prolonged shriek. The blood rushed 
into her blanched cheeks, and springing up in the bed, she 
clasped her arms tight around his neck. 

“ It was a dream — a dream, a horrid dream ! — a night- 
mare !” she screamed. “ You are here, my husband ! — my 
honoured, dear husband ! It was a dream — my arms are around 
you, and you don’t spurn me — you don’t call me that dread- 
ful name ! Oh ! how they rung it in my ears ! It was a 
dream ! I see you ! — I see you ! I was not false — bad ! I 
couldn’t be — I loved you — I do love you ! It was a horrid 
dream !” 

She paused — she still hung around his neck ; but she let 
her head fall back and gazed intently in her husband’s face. 

“ Why,” she said, in her own natural, low, subdued tone, 
but lower, tenderer than ever — •“ Why don’t you kiss your 
little Lucy ?” 

And then, starting away from him as if a harpy had seized 
her, and flashing her eye around the room, she pointed to the 
baby, and shrieked : 

u There ! — there ! — there !” 

It was a shriek that seemed to comprehend all human woe 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


275 


“ Oh ! it was not a dream ! — it was not a dream !” she 
screamed, and sinking down, she covered her face. “ Oh ! 
hide me — hide me — bury me deep under ground ! He has 
seen me — he hates me ! Oh ! God of mercy ! strike me dead ! 
Why can’t I die?” 

Colonel Freeman didn’t speak. He stood motionless 
beside the bed. Gloom and misery had settled on his noble 
countenance. His son threw himself beside his mother ; he 
tore the sheet from her face, laid his cheek to hers, and 
said — 

u Dear, dear mother, don’t ! Father will speak to you — in 
a minute he will. 

This apparently soothed her. She was quiet for a moment ; 
but the tide flowed back and swept every thing before it. She 
pushed her boy aside, threw back the tresses of hair that she 
had gathered over her face, raised up, leaning on her elbow, 
looked vacantly at her husband, at the infant, at her boy, and 
broke out into peals of maniac laughter. 

Colonel Freeman fled from the room. 

u Oh, mother ! dear mother ! don’t !” besought poor Willie. 

Sylvy laid down the baby and rushed to the bedside. In 
her effort to suppress her feelings and her words at her 
brother’s sudden appearance, she had bitten through her lip, 
and the blood had trickled down over her white, loose gown. 
The blood stains caught Lucy’s eye. 

“ Did you kill her ?” she asked with that sudden change 
of countenance and flash of intelligence, common in madness. 
“ Did you, sister Sylvy ? Oh ! how could you? Well, I don’t 
know that I am sorry ; it’s all for the best ; she was innocent, 
poor little thing ! You are sure she is quite, quite dead ?” 

u Oh, no, dear child ! — she is not dead — she is not harmed. 
I will take care of her — I will, Lucy.” 


276 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


11 Will you ? Will you tell him she is innocent? Ask him, 
beg him, pray him to let her stay with him. I am going 
where all bad women go — going — going !” 

Her utterance became incoherent and confused, and from 
that time, though her mind was filled with distressful visions, 
she had rarely and at long intervals any memory, or even 
faint shadowing, of the realities of her own existence and its 
dreadful calamity. 

Colonel Freeman went to his room — shut and locked the 
door. His sister went often to the entry that communicated 
with his apartment, and signified, by her footsteps, that she 
was there ; but there was no response to her, and she under- 
stood her brother too well to force herself upon him. 

Evening came. Willie said — 

u Don’t you think, Aunt Sylvy, that my father will come 
down before bed-time ?” 

“ No — I think not.” 

11 But he has eaten no dinner and no supper ?” 

“ I think he does not miss them, Willie. Go to bed, 
child ; go to bed — you can go to sleep.” 

“ I cannot — I feel as if I never should go to sleep again.” 

The little fellow crept up stairs, and laid himself down by 
his father’s door, and there he lay a weary hour, listening to 
the low, sad sounds within ; and then the blessing of child- 
hood fell upon him, and he slept till the sun rose. He then 
made a movement that indicated his awaking, and his father 
opened the door and drew him into the room. He put his 
arms fondly over the boy. 

“ It was kind of you, my child, to lie down there ; it com- 
forted me.” 

“ Did it, sir ? I am glad.” 

“ You have grown, Willy !” 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


277 


“ Why, yes, sir. I was only a child when you went away.” 

A slight shiver passed over Colonel Freeman. 

“ It is a great while — four years the 22d of last April. 
You have not changed otherwise than being taller, and more 
manly. You are the same kind-hearted boy — you love youi 
little mother?” 

There was an unwonted trembling of his voice on the last 
words. 

“ Lover her, father ! I love her better than any one in 
the world. I can’t help loving her. Can you, sir ?” 

His eyes fell. 

“ No, Willie. Tell me, my boy, why you never mention 
ed your mother all the spring and winter in your letters ?” 

“ She begged me not to, sir ; and she used to say, over 
and over again — 1 1 am not your mother, Willie ; I am not 
your father’s wife !’ I could not think what she meant ; and 
she cried ; so I couldn’t do what she asked me not to do.” 

“ I do not blame you, my boy. And now we stand to- 
gether, and the world sha’n’t move us. Go down stairs and 
ask your aunt to send Ben to me with my portmanteau, and 
water and towels ; and ask your aunt to come to me in half 
an hour.” 

“ Will you not come to breakfast, sir?” 

“ If I can, my son ; I am not hungry now.” 

“ But, father, you have not eaten since yesterday morn- 
ing ! You will be sick !” 

“ Don’t fear that, my boy. You know I am a soldier, 
and used to fasting. Go now.” 

If one so sick at heart could have been sick in body, it 
would have been an infinite relief. 

Miss Sylvy counted the minutes, and in half an hour pre- 
cisely was in her brother’s room. The Colonel had gone 


278 


A BERKSHIRE. TRADITION. 


through the renovation of washing and shaving, and he was 
composed in his manner, hut his ghastly paleness, a general 
tremulousness, and his heavy, dull, sick eye, showed how the 
strong man had been taken down. 

u Sit down, my good sister,” he said. 

Her brother’s composure seemed preternatural to Sylvy ; 
it awed her. She sank into a chair, and said, without ad- 
dressing him, for she seemed to speak unconsciously, 

u My knees are weak. I wonder what ails me !” 

“ Sylvy,” said her brother, “ we have a task to do, and we 
must set shoulder to shoulder. You have ever been the 

4 

friend that is the medicine of life to me, and so you will con- 
tinue to be. It seems to me that I have lived ages and ages 
since I opened that door yesterday. It has been a sorrowful 
night.” 

He paused, and wept like a child. 

“ I didn’t mean this should be again,” he continued ; 11 but 
nature will have her way. Sylvy, light has broken upon me. 

I think the good God has answered my prayer, and given me 
wisdom to direct my steps aright. I have laid out my course, 
and with His help I will maintain it. How is she this morn> 
ing?” 

“ Just so — lost, entirely lost, but not raving.” 

“ Did she sleep ?” 

“ Yes, a sort of sleep, brother. The doctor gave her 
opium. Her sleep was full of groans, and sobs, and con- 
fused talk !” 

“ Sylvy, give me in brief the history of the past week — go 
no farther back — I have made out the fatal story. I speak of 
it now for the first and last time. Let no friend ever speak 
to me on the subject. If an enemy does, I shall know how to 
answer him. I remember when it was you said she had a 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


279 


falling out with — with — •” (his voice dhoked) — “ with Oakley. 
The last of November he left here. Her life since has been 
one of remorse and misery. Tell me now, Sylvy, what I 
asked of you.” 

“Yes, brother; but I must go farther back than last 
week. I didn’t tell you all in my letters. Maybe I was 
wrong; but, says I to myself, brother can’t leave his duty, 
and what’s the use of distressing him ? 

“ It was weeks and weeks before her dejection was known 
to the neighbours. She was always a little house-body, you 
know — no hand for visiting ; and so after you went away, we 
seldom saw the neighbours, and I am a still body at best. It 
was enough to tell the work-folks that Mrs. Freeman was 
not well ; and so it went on for weeks, till one day Mr. West 
called, and after telling me that he had heard that Oakley 
had got safe into New- York, he asked to see her ; I could 
not refuse him, so I led him right into the dwelling-room. 
She started and turned pale, for she had got so nervous then 
she could not bear any thing. Mr. West soon saw how low 
she was, and he thought it was on account of your long ab- 
sence, and anxiety, and so on ; and the good man’s tears ran 
down his face — he is a dreadful feeling man you know — but 
he told her she ‘ought to submit, and remember she was a 
professor !’ 

ul Yes — yes,’ she said — it was the first word she spoke — 
‘ a professor, and a hypocrite !’ 

“ 1 But, my dear young friend,’ he said, 1 you surely have 
not lost your hope V 

“ 1 I have, I have,’ she cried , 1 for ever and for ever !’ 

“ He talked long, and handled her as if she had been a 
little child. You know, brother, how, from the very first she 
had that about her that made every one gentle with her. But, 


280 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


then, Mr. West, out of the range of doctrine, and down the 
pulpit stairs, is gentle to every one. Well, he talked, she 
not answering a word, but looking steadfastly down. He 
told her the church and he had been well satisfied with her 
experience at her examination, and that many a saint had 
low times, — but that final perseverance was sure. He said 
that he had known others who, in trying circumstances, or 
poor health, were tempted by Satan to give up their precious 
hope. She answered not a word. He told her he would 
send her his unpublished work on the Atonement, and he did 
so, and other writings of learned divines on the Perseverance 
of Saints, and so on. She never opened them — and she beg- 
ged me never to bring Mr. West into her room again, and 
wrought me to promise I would not. She said the evil spirit 
most tormented her when a good spirit was near. But she 
said little. There were days and days she saw no face but 
mine, for she said she could not even bear Willie’s presence — 
and then, again, she could not bear to have him move from 
her side. She never opened one of your letters — she would 
not even touch them. She said she was not worthy. She 
had them put in a basket on the table, beside which he sat, 
and Willie said, many a time, she would bend her head over 
it, and the tears would fall like rain. You may see them 
now all crumpled with her tears — poor little dear 1” 

u Merciful God !” exclaimed Colonel Freeman, starting 
from his seat with uncontrollable emotion. He was soon 
again calm. “ Proceed, Sylvy,” he said. 

“ Well, brother — so it went on. I saw she did not get 
thin or pale — and I kept hoping that when the time for the 
singi-ng of birds came, and the woods freshened, and the grass 
sprung, and the blossoms came out, she would rise. But, no, 
she who had loved all such pretty things, never seemed to 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


281 


desire any of them now. Day and night I considered about 
writing to you — but I knew how the country needed all your 
strength, and how you were harassed, and I much doubted if 
this were a case that even you could help ; not that I ever — 
ever — for an instant mistrusted the truth. You know, bro- 
ther, I am not much acquainted with woman’s business, and 
I am not one of the suspicious or observing kind — and truly, 
truly I should as soon have surmised evil of one of the angels 
that stand before the Heavenly throne as of our Lucy — poor 
little dear ! I always went into her room before I went to 
bed, to see if there were any thing to be done, — and night 
before last, as I was leaving the room, I heard a groan — I 
turned and looked at her. ‘ You are in distress,’ I said. 

“ c I am always in distress,’ she answered. 

“ ‘ But,’ says I, ‘ Lucy, this is something more than com- 
mon.’ 

“ 1 It is ! — it is !’ she says, and clenching both her hands, 
she told me what was coming — ‘ I shall die,’ she says, 1 I 
know I shall die ; for I have prayed and prayed for that. I 
have asked nothing else. God is merciful, and he will grant 
me that. I would rather go now to the fire prepared for me 
than meet your brother’s altered eye.’ 

“ She never called you husband — poor little dear ! — from 
the time her spirits first failed. I was calm, brother. The 
shock was too great for words, or tears. Her sufferings 
increased beyond account. I had never been in such a situa- 
tion before, and though she begged me to let her die alone 
with me, I dared not. So I roused Ben, and sent for 
Doctor Lyman. He said not one word when I told him. 
But he felt. Well, the child was born towards morning. 
Doctor Lyman was doctor, nurse, and every thing — for I 
knew no more than you would, brother, what to do. I think 


282 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


she wandered a little from the moment the child was born. 
She would see Willie — she would not be denied. Doctor 
Lyman said it was not safe to refuse her. I told him Willie 
might be relied on. The doctor went out and talked to 
Willie himself — I don’t know what he said, but I surmise 
the poor boy knows enough what it all means. Doctor Ly- 
man said, says he, ‘ Miss Sylvy, keep your doors shut and 
locked. The hellish spirit of gossip is awake in the vil- 
lage,’ says he, 1 but, if possible, it shall not be gratified this 
time. For the present, take the best care you can. You 
know how to keep close — so do I. We will consider for the 
future. Perhaps I will, myself, go to the Colonel — but we 
leave that. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. We 
will shelter her if we can. She is a million times better than 
those that are ready and glad to believe in her backsliding, 
1 tigers and foul beasts !’ says he.” 

u Oh, that it should be so — c earth and ashes’ as we all 
are !” groaned Colonel Freeman. 

Sylvy had finished her mournful story, and she was not 
addicted to any prosing comments, least of all at this time 
was she like to offend in this way. After a few moments’ 
silence, Colonel Freeman said, “ Thank you, my good sister ; 
I believe you have done all for the best. There is much 
wisdom in a good and feeling heart. Tell Dr. Lyman I 
kindly thank him. I cannot speak even to him on the sub- 
ject. But, do you tell him, Sylvy, I wish to have no con- 
cealments — no false shows — no acting lies. No, say not that 
last to him. He is an honest man, and meant no wrong. I 
have my own view of the matter. I wish to shape our life 
for the equal eye of God, and not with any respect to the 
erring, presumptuous hard judgment with which man, and 
woman too, judge their own frail fellow-creatures. No, I have 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


283 


laid out my course, and with God’s help and blessing, I will 
follow it. I have no blame to throw upon my poor little 
wife — if she were herself, I would go upon my knees and ask 
her forgiveness. It is not that I take blame for marrying 
one so much younger than myself. You know, Sylvy, our 
love filled up that chasm ! But, how could I, deemed a pru- 
dent man — arrived at the age of cool forethought and discre- 
tion, invite a man — an idle man — with all the qualities pleas- 
ing in the eye of a young woman, in the closest intimacy with 
my wif;e. I, who was her earthly providence, should have 
preserved her from temptation, and not thrust her into it. I 
look back and see that repentance and remorse followed close 
on transgression. Surely, if a mortal’s penitence can expiate 
sin, she has washed hers out by months of continual tears — 
by days and nights of untold misery. My life henceforth 
shall be devoted to her — if she lives. If she dies, and I 
think she will die, not one reproachful thought will turn to 
the time since we parted, but I will lay her down in the grave 
lovingly, and in the hope of a joyful re-union.” 

“ Brother, I thought you would feel so — I know your na- 
ture — but — ” 

“ But what, Sylvy ?” 

“ You forget the law, brother — the law of church and 
state divorces you ?” 

“ Forget !” echoed Colonel Freeman. “ She has, herself, 
divorced us — broken for ever our marriage bond — but what 
law can prevent my cherishing her as a child — loving her as 
a child. We have a wide land, Sylvy; if she lives we will 
take her beyond the reach of the laws she has offended. We 
will live where God, who forgiveth, will alone take cogni- 
zance of us. We will all go together, Sylvy.” 

u The baby, brother ?” 


284 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


“ I have wrestled there, Sylvy. I cannot see how it is 
right to cast out from us the only perfectly innocent one 
among us. And yet to take it with us a perpetual me- 
mento, badge, and reproach ! I leave that, Sylvy. I trust 
to have strength for my duty when the time comes. For the 
present, find a nurse, and let the poor little heir of shame 
and sorrow be well cared for.” 

“ But you must leave us, brother, and return to duty ?” 

“No, I never will leave my home again. Others can as 
well perform my public duty — none other can do it here. 
There is my letter to the commanding officer.” 

He laid under her eye an unsealed letter. Sylvy read 
the few words following, which were all it contained. 

“ My dear Sir — Family afflictions compel me to resign my 
commission. With ardent prayers for my country — all I can 
now give her — 

“ I remain, respectfully yours, &c.” 

The dishonour of Colonel Freeman’s house was soon 

known through the little community of S . The weak had 

their pleasure in the mean “ I told you so !” The wicked 
scoffed ; the hard-hearted thought the Colonel should be dealt 
with for winking at sin ; the pitiful dropped a tear over their 
erring sister, and said nothing. There were a few magnani- 
mous minds that sympathized with the divine qualities of 
Colonel Freeman, and felt how much greater was the hus- 
band, who could hold an even scale, who could forgive and 
succour, than he who crushes and avenges. Mercy is thrice 
blessed. “ Pride is hateful before God and man.” 

“ Man proposes— God disposes,” as the projects and dis- 
appointments of every day show. Colonel Freeman took his 
breakfast with his sister and son. Ben, and a small servant 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


285 


girl, as was the custom of the time, even with most of our New 
England gentry, sitting at one end of the table. The Colonel 
was calm and self-possessed. He commended Miss Sylvy’s 
bread — he had never seen as good, he said, since he had left 
his own home. “ The making of good bread was one of the 
first of duties — but few,” he said — and there was a faint, but 
benign smile on his face as he looked to his sister in saying 
it — “but few performed it.” He thanked the zealous little 
girl who had been out in the dewy field to pick the strawber- 
ries for his breakfast. He asked Ben about the planting and 
the stock. The storm had swept over him, but it had left 
him lord of himself. 

“ You praise every thing, but you don’t eat, father !” said 
poor Willie, who watched him intently. 

u Don’t be anxious, my dear little boy — I am a strong 
man, and can bear a long fast. In a day or two I shall do 
my part.” He could not, with all his resolution and effort, do 
it now ; and he hastily left the table and joined Dr. Lyman, 
who he knew was awaiting him in his wife’s apartment. She 
was awake. She turned her eyes, glancing on him, and they 
followed him as he passed round to the foot of the bed. She 
was quiet, but it was a fearful calm, an absence of the sense 
from which emotion and passion spring. Colonel Freeman 
came round to the side of the bed. He took her hand. It 
was passive in his. He stroked her hair from off her brow 
as he had been used to do when she was a little girl. Not a 
muscle moved. u Lucy, — dear little Lucy !” he said. She 
made no reply — no movement. He bent over her, and his 
hot tears fell on her white cheek. She didn’t feel them. He 
started away from her, and paced up and down the room. 
She raised her head and leaned on her elbow — her eye"fe still 


286 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


intently fixed on him. Having knit his mind to the worst — 
u Are her senses utterly gone, Doctor ?” he asked. 

“ I cannot tell you, my dear sir — it looks so, I confess — 
but I think not utterly. She has spoken to me. She seems 
to be possessed with one idea. Mrs. Freeman, do you know 
who you are looking at?” 

“ I know what I am looking at,” she answered, speaking 
in her natural voice, but with an inflexible harrowing monot- 
ony ; “ but you do not, Doctor, — one shadow cannot see an- 
other. I excuse you sir, — but you need not talk about it. 
I am a real living being, and talking rather worries me. Pass 
this way — pass this way.” She motioned her hand to her 
husband, and he came again to the bedside. — “ There it is, 
just so, Doctor. They are all gone — there’s nothing but sha* 
dows left !” 

And so it seemed to her. This one idea had taken pos- 
session of her mind. God had dealt mercifully with her. 
The great facts of her life were stricken from her memory. 
The faculty was not utterly lost ; for several days following 
she continued to call the Doctor, Sylvy, and Willie by name 
— always maintaining they were mere shadows. Doctor Ly- 
man laid the baby on her arm, hoping the intense feeling 
connected with its existence might stimulate her mind to 
more rational action. But it failed of this effect. She only 
said in the same unvarying tone, “ It is but a little shadow, 
but it makes me cold — take it away, if you please.” 

One after another was lost from her memory. Her hus- 
band lived alone there, if that could be called life which to 
her was but the shadow of life. Day after day — weeks — 
months — years ! passed on and there was no change. The 
only feeling she manifested was a preference of her husband’s 
to all other “ shadows,” as she called them. She made little 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


287 


demonstration, even of this. She had a desire, as most people 
under a nervous derangement have, to be in the open air, and 
she was permitted to walk in the fields behind the house. 
No one but Colonel Freeman could induce her to return to 
it. He had but to join her and turn towards the house — she 
followed, often repeating “ that shadow draws me after it !” 
The only food she tasted was that he brought her. His 
patience and tenderness never abated. It was wonderful to 
see a man in the vigour of his manhood — a man who had com- 
manded a regiment in perilous and perplexing times, who had 
won laurels in many battles, become the gentle nurse — cir- 
cumscribing his life, and renouncing power and fame, and all 
that most men most love, most eagerly pursue. 

He built an apartment for her with a southern aspect — 
hoping, as he said, that the sun and moon would be God’s 
ministers to her. He bought sweet singing birds, and put 
them in cages by her window. 

He planted lilacs and damask roses — the only flowering 
things then domiciliated in Berkshire, about her window, and 
he trained around it a monthly honey-suckle, obtained, at 
much pains. Thus the u Flower Angel” was ever near her, 
expounding the parable of that modern Sirach, Edie Ochil- 
tree, who says “ it is to teach us not to slight them that are 
in the darkness of sin and the decay of tribulation, that God 
sends odours to refresh the withered hour.” 

A coarse jest at the expense of Colonel Freeman might 
have passed round in the congregation of vulgar men at the 
village bar-room, and there might have been depreciating 
whispers from some female Pharisee of a tea-drinking — but 
for the most part, men, women and children united in a senti- 
ment of reverence for the Freemans. 

Taking into account what human nature is, we must at- 


288 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


tribute a portion of this to the natural dignity and command- 
ing presence of Colonel Freeman, to his soldierly reputation, 
and to the purity of a life without reproach, which latter car- 
ries with it a stronger prestige than the “ divinity that doth 
hedge about a king.” There was a single exception to this 
general current of respect. 

Obed Allen returned to his home at the close of the war, 
one of the few enriched by its employment, and puffed up, 
and glorying in his shame. The very day after his return he 
met Col. Freeman at the village Post-Office. Mail-day was 
then once a week, some great news was expected, and the 
little room was crowded with men and lads from all the 
districts of the town. Allen had not been long enough at 
home “ to take an observation,” (to borrow a seaman’s phrase,) 
that is (in our village parlance) he had not ascertained u the 
mind of the street,” and obedient to his own low instinct, he 
ventured to the Colonel a jocular reference to the warning he 
had given him. Colonel Freeman said nothing, but sent a 
glance through Allen, which, a bystander said, put him in 
mind of the promise : “ I will give unto you power to tread 
on serpents and scorpions ;” there was a general cry of 
“ shame !” and Allen was hustled round the room, and kicked 
out the door, and that very evening, a brilliant moonlight one, 
the lads of the village rode him on a rail — a species of Lynch 
law then much in fashion. 

We have but one more incident to relate before we close 
this sad, but we hope not quite useless story. Soon after the 
Peace, an English packet was transmitted to Colonel Free- 
man, by official hands. He was alone with his sister when 
he received it, and pleased and curious as one is at receiving 
an important-looking dispatch, he turned it first on one side, 
and then on the other, examined the stamps and the hand- 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


289 


writing, and said, “ Why, Sylvy, one would think I was still 
somebody — a colonel, at the head of a regiment.” 

“ Open it, brother— open it,” said Sylvy, impatiently. 

“ Foreign Embassy ! Secretary of Legation !” murmured 
the Colonel, still reading the impressions — “ what can this 
mean ?” 

“ Open the letter, brother, open it — that is the shortest 
way to find what is in it.” 

The Colonel smiled and broke the seal — and first read the 
envelope which was merely a certificate of the genuineness 
of the inclosure. He broke the second seal, and read as 
follows : — 

“ My dear Sir — I have just succeeded to the possession 
of an immense fortune, and hasten to offer you the only re- 
paration in my power for a wrong deeply regretted by — 
Yours with sentiments of immeasurable respect — 

“ Stanton Oakley.” 

Inclosed within this letter was a draft for ten thousand 
pounds sterling. Colonel Freeman threw the letter across 
the table to his sister without speaking a word. 

“ How dare he !” she exclaimed as she finished reading it. 

( Regretted V what a flimsy word for one who has no right 
all his life to talk or think of any thing but sackcloth and 
ashes. How will you answer it, brother ?” 

“ There is but one way. I shall return his letter and 
draft through the hands that forwarded it. My handwriting 
of the superscription will be explanation enough to him.” 

By an inexplicable coincidence, marked events of life 
seem to fall together. Miss Sylvy went habitually early 
to Mrs. Freeman’s room, and washed and dressed her, as 
when she had first come to live with her, and she was as do- 
13 


290 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


cile and gentle in her hands now as in childhood. She had 
always found her out of bed, and usually pacing up and down 
the room, for, with the wakefulness that characterizes insani- 
ity, her sleep ended with the first ray of daylight. On the 
day after the receipt, of Oakley’s letter, on going to perform 
her morning office, she found Lucy still in bed. Miss Sylvy 
approached the bed, and sat down, for she found, to her sur- 
prise, that her patient was, as she believed, still sleeping, and 
as she looked nearer, she thought much changed. There 
was a slight knitting of the brow which had been smooth 
from vacuity — the blue veins showed a quick and irregular 
beating of the heart. Soon she perceived a movement of the 
eyeballs through the almost transparent lids, and a tremu- 
lousness of the lids ; and in a few moments, closed as they 
were, one tear stole after another over her deathly pale cheek. 
Sylvy gently wiped them away. 

“ Thank you, dear — good — sister,” said Lucy, in the low- 
est, feeblest whisper, “ but don’t speak to me, now — sit still, 
by me.” 

Sylvy obeyed — every minute seemed an age. But in a 
few minutes she again spoke. 

“ Call your brother,” she said, “ and Willy — and lay my 
baby on my pillow.” 

“ I will call them — but, your baby — dear little Lucy — 
your baby is in heaven. She lived but a year.” 

“ A year !” She opened her eyes, wide, and spoke with 
great increase of force. “ Why, I thought it was but yester- 
day, sister ; a year ! how strange ! But she is in heaven, 
you say — God is good and merciful ! Call them, Sylvy.” 

Sylvy communicated the change to her brother and ne- 
phew— now a charming lad of fifteen. They hastened, with 
throbbing hearts and suppressed emotion, to the bed of the 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


291 


dying wife and mother. They both bent over and kissed her 
and then knelt beside her. Colonel Freeman wore his hair 
long over his temples ; it was silvered, but it still retained 
the softness and waviness of his youth. She put up her little 
hand and held it off his brow and looked calmly and intently 
into his eyes till her arm dropped from weakness. 

“ My friend ! — father ! — husband !” she faintly articulated, 
“may I call you husband'?” 

“ Oh, Lucy ! — dear wife ! — yes !” 

“ You have forgiven me?” 

“ Forgiven ! — don’t speak that word — you are dearer to 
me than my own soul. Don’t,” he said, speaking with per 
feet calmness, for he feared a breath might hurry away her 
fluttering spirit, “ don’t speak of the past — don’t think of it, 
dearest child.” 

“ I must speak — for I am going away from you all ; and 
I have much to say. How long is it since you came home 
and stood there at the foot of the bed and looked at me ? Oh, 
my heart ! be still one minute.” She laid her hand on her 
throbbing heart. “And Willie was there where he is now, 
and Sylvy sat by the table, with my poor baby — how long ?” 

“ Four years, yesterday !” 

« Four years \—four years ! — how strange — strange ! I 
thought it was yesterday morning. I remember nothing 
since, but a strange dream of shadows — and a long, long 
walk with you, my husband — up through the clover-field, and 
being so tired— and a feeling that you loved me, and pitied 
me — and that you all would love me if you were any thing 
— but you seemed all, but shadows. You took care of my 
sinless baby, dear husband ? God received it, and you. I 
know, did not cast it out.” 

« I did not, my child. Sylvy took it to her own room — 


292 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


and we got a wet-nurse for it — and they told me it thrived — 
but at the end of the year it pleased God suddenly to take 
it. I did what I could for it — I never saw it.” 

Lucy drew a deep sigh. “ Right — perfectly right ,” she 
said. “ What a long dream I have had — four years ! I 
waked from it early this morning. It seemed to me, this 
was not my room.” 

u No, dear child, it is a room I built for you.” 

“ How strange — I got out of bed and crept, I was too 
weak to walk, to the window. I opened the shutter, the 
clouds were rose-coloured. I had a feeling I should soon 
be beyond them. There was the sweetest scent came into 
the windows — it seemed to me the breath of an angel. I 
tried to think, I could not think, but the past came back 
— one thing after another, as we see objects as the light of 
day increases. And I had no distress — no distress. It 
seemed to me, you all loved me, all were at sweet peace with 
me ! I recalled that hour of darkness and distress, when 
you came home, my honoured husband ; I seemed again to 
see your look of pity, and compassion and forgiveness, and it 
was that gave me a sense of God’s infinite mercy — yes, peace 
fell upon me, God’s peace, and all the world cannot take it 
away.” She spoke in the lowest audible tone, and audible 
only in profound silence, and to senses made most acute by 
intense feeling. “ Stand up, dear Willie,” she said. “ Oh — 
how tall — it is four years ! Willie, put your cheek down to 
mine, dear. Willie, when you are a man, you will not blush 
at your mother’s name ? the sin that has been repented in 
tears, "and misery not to be told as mine has — that God and 
man has forgiven, you will not blush for, my son ?” 

“ Oh, no — dear mother, no — never !” 

“ Sylvy,” resumed the dying woman, “ I have not breath 

N 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


293 


to thank you. How long-suffering, and slow to anger you 
were.” 

“ Oh, dear little Lucy,” said the faithful creature, “ don’t 
waste your breath on me — I did nothing, I could not do any 
thing for you — but love you — that I did.” 

A faint smile played over Lucy’s pale — still beautiful 
lips. “ Yes — and doing that you could do — did do all the 
rest,” she said — ci Sylvy, I have a message for Mr. West. 
Give my respectful love to that good man, and tell him God 
has taught me better than when I cried in my despair that 
my hope was gone for ever, and for ever — tell him that I re- 
turned to Him who forgiveth and upbraideth not — and fell 
asleep in my Heavenly Father’s arms.” She then again 
kissed Willie, motioned him aside, and drew her husband to 
her. “ My husband,” she said, 11 dearest — best — we are again 
united !” 

u Yes, my wife,” he answered, “ for ever and for ever !” 

A gleam of joy shot through her eyes,, a heavenly bright- 
ness overspread her whole face, it came and went like a flash 
of lightning, but it left an ineffaceable impression on those 
faithful ones who saw it. To them it was a preternatural 
light — a visible token of God’s presence. 

Two days after, the neighbours assembled to perform the 
last services. When Mr. West rose to make the prayer, he 
repeated, with a trembling voice, and overflowing eyes, the 
message of the departed to him. It was his only allusion to 
any thing peculiar in the circumstances of their friends. The 
good man’s mind, glowing with a sense of God’s infinite love, 
kindled with divine life spirits lower than his own. 

Lucy Freeman was tenderly and reverently borne to her 
grave, and when the sods were laid upon it, human, for once, 
reached heavenly love — there was more joy, on earth as in 


294 


A BERKSHIRE TRADITION. 


heaven, over one that repenteth, than over ninety and nine 
that had not gone astray. 

######### 

Colonel Freeman returned to life, not with a bowed head 
and faint heart, hut with that cheerful activity that springs 
from an assured faith in Grod, and love to man. The only 
indication that he had suffered more than others appeared in 
pity for the erring, and earnest efforts to reclaim them, and 
in sympathy with every form of sorrow. It was said of 
him that not a day passed over his head without some good, 
purposed and done. The prosperity of his outward life over- 
flowed the more barren condition of his neighbours. 

His son grew up to place and honour in the State. He 
kept his promise to his mother. Her name was transmitted 
to his children a dear, familiar, honoured household word. 
And when he laid his father (after a serene and sound old 
age) in a grave beside her in our village burial-ground, it was 
with “ a peace that passeth understanding.” 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


“ Be just, and fear not. 

Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, 

Thy God’s, and truth’s ; then, if thou fullest, O Cromwell, 
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr.” 


The reign of Charles the Sixth is one of the most humiliat- 
ing periods of the French history, which, in its centuries of 
absolute kings and unquestioning subjects, presents us a most 
melancholy picture of the degradation of man, and of the dis- 
heartening prolongation of the infancy of society. Nature 
had given Charles but an hereditary monarch’s portion of 
brains, and that portion had not been strengthened or devel- 
oped by education or exercise of any sort. Passions he had 
not ; he never rose to the dignity of passion ; but his appe 
tites were strong, and they impelled him, unresisted, to every 
species of indulgence. His excesses brought on fits of mad- 
ness, which exposed his kingdom to the rivalship and misrule 
of the princes of the blood. Fortunately for the subsequent 
integrity of France, these men were marked by the general, 
and, as it would seem, constitutional weakness of transmitted 
royalty ; and were besides too much addicted to pleasure, to 


296 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


crave political independence or renown in arms, the common 
passions of the powerful and high-born. 

Instead of sundering the feeble ties that bound them to 
their allegiance, and raising their princely domains to the inde- 
pendence of the crown, they congregated at Paris, then, as now, 
the Paradise of the devotees to pleasure, and surrendered 
themselves, as their chroniclers quaintly express it, to u fes- 
tins : mascarades , danses , caroles et ebattemens ,” (every spe- 
cies of diversion,) varied by an occasional affray, an ambus- 
cade, or an assassination. The talent, that is now employed 
upon the arts of life, in inventing new machines, and contriving 
new fabrics, was then exhausted in originating new pastimes. 
Games of cards, and the revival of dramatic entertainments, 
date from the period of our story — the beginning of the fif- 
teenth century. 

There shone at Charles’s court one of those stars, that 
occasionally cross the orbit of royalty, whose brilliancy ob- 
scured the splendour of the hereditary nobility,- — the lights, 
that, according to conservative opinion, are set in the firma- 
ment to rule the day and night of the plebeian world. 

In the month of September, of the year 1409, a stranger, 
attended by a servant with a small travelling-sack, knocked 
at the gate of a magnificent hotel in Paris. He was answered 
by a porter, who cast on him a glance of inquiry as keen 
as a bank clerk’s upon the face of an unknown bank-note ; and, 
seeing neither retinue, livery, nor other insignia of rank, he 
was gruffly dismissing him, when the stranger said, “ Softly, 
my friend ; present this letter to the Grand-Master, and tell 
him the bearer awaits his pleasure ! Throw the sack down 
within the gate, Luigi !” he added to his attendant, “ and 
come again at twelve and, without more ado, he took his 
station within the court, a movement in which the porter ac- 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


297 


quiesced, seeing that in the free bearing of the stranger, and 
in the flashing of his dark eye, which indicated, it were wise 
not to question an authority that had nature’s seal. On one 
side of the court was a fountain, and on the other a group 
of Fauns, rudely carved in wood. Adornings of sculpture 
were then unknown in France ; — the art was just reviving, 
and the ancient models still lay buried under barbaric ruins. 
Two grooms appeared, conducting, in front of the immense 
flight of steps that led up to the hotel, four horses caparisoned 
for their riders, two for females, as was indicated by the form 
of the saddles, and the gay silk knots that decked the bridles, 
one of them being studded with precious stones. At the 
same moment, there issued from the grand entrance a gentle- 
man, and a lady who had the comely embonpoint befitting 
her uncertain “ certain age.” She called her companion “ mon 
mari ,” and he assisted her to mount, with that nonchalant, 
conjugal air, which indicate that gallantry had long been ob- 
solete in their intercourse. 

The interest the* wife did not excite, was directed to 
another quarter. Mon mari’s eye was constantly reverting 
to the door, with an expression of eager expectation. “ Sure- 
ly,” said the lady, u Violette has had time to find my eau- de- 
rose ; — let us go, my husband, — we are losing the freshness 
of the morning. She may follow with Edouard.” 

“ Go you, ma ch£re amie ,” replied her husband. “ Mount, 
Edouard, and attend your mistress, — my stirrup wants ad- 
justing, — I’ll follow presently. How slow she rides ! a plague 
on old women’s fears l” he muttered, as she ambled off. u Ah, 
there you are, my morning star,” he cried, addressing a young 
girl who darted through the door, and appeared well to war- 
rant a comparison to the most beautiful of the celestial lights. 
She wore a Spanish riding-cap, a cloth dress, the waist neatly 


298 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


fitted to hor person, and much in the fashion of the riding 
costume of the present day, save that it was shorter by some 
half-yard, and thus showed to advantage a rich Turkish pan- 
talette and the prettiest feet in the world, laced in boots. 
“ Is my lady gone ?” she exclaimed, dropping her veil over 
her face. 

“ Yes, Yiolette, your lady is gone, but your lord is wait- 
ing for my lady’s mignonne. Come, mistress of my heart ! 
here is my hand for your stepping-stone.” He then threw 
his arm around her waist, under the pretext of assisting her to 
mount ; but she darted away like a butterfly from a pursuer’s 
grasp, and, snatching the rein from the groom’s hand, and 
saying, “ My lord, I am country bred, and neither need nor 
like your gallantries,” she led the horse to the platform on 
which the Fauns were placed, and, for the first time seeing 
the stranger, who stood, partly obscured by them, looking cu- 
riously upon this little scene, she blushed, and he involun- 
tarily bowed. It was an instinctive homage, and she requited 
it with a look as different from that which she returned to 
the libertine gaze of the Count de Roucy, as the reflection in 
a mirror of two such faces, the one bloated and inflamed, the 
other pure and deferential, would have been. Availing her- 
self of the slight elevation of the platform, she sprang into 
the saddle and set off at a speed that, in De Roucy’s eye, pro- 
vokingly contrasted with her mistress’s cautious movement. 
“ Who are you, and what do you here ?” he said, turning to 
the stranger. 

“ My name,” replied the stranger, without condescending 
to notice the insolent manner of the question, “ is Felice 
Montano, and I am here on business with the Grand-Master.” 

“ Did ye not exchange glances with that girl ?” 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


299 


“ I looked on her, and the saints reward her, she looked 
on me.” 

u Par amour ?” 

u I stand not here to be questioned : — I ne’er saw the 
lady before, but, with Heaven’s kind leave, I shall see her 
again !” 

“ Take care, — the girl is my wife’s minion, the property of 
the house, — ye shall be watched !” muttered De Roucy, and, 
mounting his horse, he rode off, just as the porter reappear- 
ed, attended by a valet-de-place , whose obsequious address 
indicated that a flattering reception awaited Montano. 

Montano was conducted up a long flight of steps, and 
through a corridor to an audience-room, whose walls were 
magnificently hung with tapestry, and its windows curtained 
with the richest Oriental silk. Silver vases, candelabra of 
solid gold, and various costly furniture, were displayed with 
dangerous profusion, offering a tempting spoil to the secret 
enemies of their proprietor. 

There were already many persons of rank assembled, and 
others entering. Montano stood apart, undaunted by their 
half insolent, half curious glances. He had nothing to ask, 
and therefore feared nothing. He felt among these men, no- 
torious for their ignorance and their merely animal lives, the 
conscious superiority of an enlightened man, that raised him 
far above the mere hereditary distinction, stigmatized by a 
proud plebeian as the “ accident of an accident.” Montano 
was an Italian, and proudly measured the eminence from 
which his instructed countrymen looked down upon their 
French neighbours. 

As he surveyed the insolent nobles, he marvelled at the 
ascendency which Jean de Montagu, the G-rand-Master of the 
Palace, had maintained over them for nearly half a century. 


300 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


The son of a humble notary of Paris, he had been ennobled 
by King John, had been the prime and trusted favourite of 
three successive monarchs, had maintained through all his 
capricious changes the favour of Charles, had allied his chil- 
dren to nobles and kings, had liberally expended riches, that 
the proudest of them all did not possess, had encouraged and 
defended the labouring classes, and was not known to have 
an enemy, save Burgundy, the fearful u Jean sans peur.” 

The suitors to the Grand-Master had assembled early, as 
it was his custom to receive those who had pressing business 
before breakfast, it being his policy not to keep his suitors in 
vexing attendance. He knew his position, even while it 
seemed firmest, to be an uncertain one ; and he warily prac- 
tised those arts which smooth down the irritable surface of 
men’s passions, and lull to sleep the hydra, vanity. 

“ The Grand-Master is true as the dial !” said a person 
standing near Montano ; “ the clock is on the stroke of nine J , 
— mark me ! as it striketh the last stroke, he will appear.” 

Montano fixed his eyes on the grand entrance to the sa- 
loon, expecting, that, when the doors “ wide open flew,” he 
should see that Nature had put the stamp of her nobility on 
the plebeian who kept these lawless lords in abeyance. The 
portal remained closed, there was no flurishing of trumpets, 
but, at a low side-door, gently opened and shut, entered a man 
of low stature, and so slender and shrunken, that it would 
seem Nature and time had combined to compress him within 
the narrowest limits of the human frame. His features were 
small, his chin beardless, and the few locks that hung, like 
silver fringe around his head, were soft and curling as an 
infant’s. He wore a Persian silk dressing-gown over a citi- 
zen’s simple under-dress, and his tread was so light, his man- 
ner so. unpretending and unclaiming, that Montano would 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


301 


scarcely have looked at him a second time, if he had not per- 
ceived every eye directed towards him, and certain tokens of 
deference analogous to those flutterings and shrinkings that 
are seen in the basse cour , when its sovereign steps forth 
among his subdued rivals. But, when he did look again, he 
saw the fire glowing in a restless eye, that seemed to see and 
read all at a glance, — an eye that no man, carrying a secret 
in his bosom, could meet without quailing. 

“ Your Grace believes,” said the Grand-Master to the 
Duke of Orleans, who had been vehemently addressing him 
in a low voice, K that these mysteries are a kind of divertise- 
ment that will minister to our sovereign’s returning health ?” 

“ So says the learned leech, and we all know they are the 
physic our brother loves.” 

“ Then be assured, your poor servant will honour the 
drafts on his master’s treasury, though it be well nigh 
drained by the revels of the late marriages. The king’s poor 
subjects starve, that his rich ones may feast ; and children 
scarce out of leading-strings are married, that their fathers 
and mothers may have pretexts for dances and masque- 
rades.” 

“ Methinks,” said the Count de Yaudemont, the ally and 
messenger of Burgundy, u the Grand-Master’s example is 
broad enough to shelter what seems, in comparison of the 
late gorgeous festival within these walls, but the revels of 
rustics.” 

“ The festivals within these walls are paid with coin from 
our own poor coffers,” replied the Grand-Master, ; ‘not drawn 
from the King’s treasury, and rusted with the sweat and 
tears of his subjects. But what have we here ?” He passed 
his eye over a petition to the King, from sundry artisans, 
whose houses had been stripped of their movables by the 


302 


THE WHITE SCARE. 


valets of certain Dukes, — these valets pleading the common 
usage of justification of this summary process. u Tell our 
good friends,” he said, “ it shall be my first business to pre- 
sent this to our gracious sovereign ; but, in the mean time, 
let them draw on me for the amount of their losses. I can 
better afford the creditor’s patient waiting than our poor 
friends who, after their day’s hard toil, should lie securely 
on their own beds at night. Ah, my lords, why do ye not, 
like our neighbours of England, make the poor man’s cottage 
his castle.” After various colloquies with the different 
groups, in which, whether he denied or granted, it was always 
with the same gracious manner, the same air of self-negation, 
he drew near to De Vaudemont, who stood apart from the 
rest, with an air of frigid indifference, and apparent uncon- 
sciousness of the Grand-Master’s presence or approach, till 
Montagu asked, in a low and deferential tone, “ What answer 
sendeth his Grace of B-b-b-b-b — ?” Montagu had a stam- 
mering infirmity, which beset him when he was most anxious 
to appear unconcerned. He lowered his voice at every fresh 
effort to pronounce the name, and this confidential tone gave 
a more startling effect to the loud, rough voice, in which the 
party addressed pronounced, “ Burgundy ! his Grace bids me 
say, that for some diseases blood-letting is the only remedy.” 

“ Tell Burgundy,” replied the Grand- Master, now speak- 
ing without the slightest faltering, and in allusion to the re- 
cent alliance of his own with the royal family, “ tell Burgundy, 
that the humblest stream that mingles with the Ganges be- 
comes a portion of holy water, and that blood-letting is danger- 
ous when ye approach the royal arteries ! Ah !” he continued, 
turning suddenly to Montano, grasping his hand, and resuming 
his usual tone, “ You, I think, are the son of Nicolo Montano, 
—welcome to Paris ! You must stay to breakfast with me. 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


303 


I have much to ask concerning my old friend. It is one and 
twenty years since your mother put my finger in your mouth 
to feel your first tooth. Bless me, what goodly rows are there 
now ! So time passes !” 

“ And where it were once safe to thrust your finger, it 
might now be bitten off. Ha! Jean de Montagu?” growled 
Y audemont. 

“ When there are wolves abroad, we take care of our 
fingers,” coolly replied Montagu. 

These discourteous sallies and significant retorts were af- 
terwards remembered, as are the preludes to an earthquake 
after the catastrophe has interpreted them. The assembly 
broke up, Montagu bidding his young friend to take a stroll 
in the garden, and rejoin him at the ringing of the break- 
fast bell. When that sounded, a valet appeared and con- 
ducted Montano to a breakfast room, where game, cakes, and 
fruit were served on plate, and the richest wine sparkled in 
cups that old Homer might fain have gemmed with his con- 
secrating verse. ;; I had forgotten,” said Montagu, “ that a 
boy of two and twenty needs no whetting to his appetite ; but 
sit ye down, and we will dull its edge. Ah, here you are, 
He Boucy. We have a guest to season our fare this morn- 
ing, the son of my old schoolmate, Nicolo Montano.” De 
Boucy bowed haughtily, and Montano returned the salutation 
as it was given. “ Why comes not Elinor to breakfast ?” 
asked Montagu of the Count de Boucy, who was the husband 
of his eldest daughter. 

“ She likes not strangers.” 

“ God forgive her ! Felice Montano is no stranger ; — the 
son of her father’s first and best friend, — of the playfellow of 
his boyhood, — of the founder of his fortunes, a stranger !” 

11 1 thought you had woven your own fortunes, sir.” 


304 


THE WHITE SCAIIF. 


“ So have I, and interwoven with them some rotten 
threads. Think not, De Roucy, I do not notice, or that, no- 
ticing, I care for your allusion to my father’s craft. Come 
hither, Pierre.” I)e Roucy’s son, a boy of seven, came and 
stood at his knee. “When you are grown a man, Pierre, 
remember, that, when your father’s fathers were burning cot- 
tages, bearing off poor men’s daughters, slaughtering their 
cattle, and trampling down their harvest-fields, — doing the 
work of hereditary lordlings, — my child, your mother’s ances- 
tors were employed in planting mulberries, rearing silk- 
worms, multiplying looms, — in making bread and wine plen- 
ty, and adding to the number of happy homes in their coun- 
try.” 

“ But, grandpapa, I won’t remember the wicked ones that 
stole and did such horrid deeds !” 

“ Ah, Pierre, you will be a lord then, and learn in lordly 
phrase to call stealing levying. Go, boy, and eat your break- 
fast ; — God forgive me ! I have worked hard to get my pos- 
terity into the ranks of robbers !” 

At another moment, Montano would have listened with 
infinite interest to all these hints, as so many clues to the his- 
tory and mind of a man who was the wonder of his times ; but 
now something more captivating to the imagination of two and 
twenty, than the philosophy of any old man’s history, occupied 
him, and he was wondering, why no inquiry was made about 
the companion of the Countess, and whether that creature, who 
seemed to him only fit to be classed with the divinities, was 
really a menial in the house of this weaver’s son. 

“ Your father,” resumed the Grand-Master, “ writes with a 
plainness that pleases me. I thank him. It shall not be my 
fault, if every window in my sovereign’s palace is not curtained 
frith the silks from his looms ; and, if it were not that my 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


305 


son’s espousals have drained my purse, I would give you the 
order on the instant for the re-furnishing of my hotel. But 
another season will come, and then we shall he in heart again. 
Your father does not write- in courtly vein. He says, that, 
amid his quiet and obedient subjects, who toil and spin for 
him while he sleeps, he envies not my uncertain influence over 
a maniac monarch, and dominion over factious nobles. Un- 
certain, — St. Peter ! What think ye, Be Boucy ? May not 
a man who has allied one daughter to your noble house, 
another to the Sire de Montbaron, and another to Melun, and 
now has affianced his only son to the Constable d’Albret, 
doubly cousin to the King, may not he throw his glove in dame 
Fortune’s face ?” 

“ Yes, my lord, and dame Fortune may throw it back 
again. He only betrays his weakness, who props himself on 
every side.” 

u Weakness ! I have not an enemy save Burgundy.” 

“ And he who has Burgundy needs none other.” 

“ You are billious this morning, Be Boucy. But come, 
wherewith shall we entertain our young friend ? We have no 
pictures, no statues. Our gardens are a wilderness, Montano, 
to your Paradise of Italy ; but I have one piece of workman- 
ship, that I think would even startle the masters of your land.” 
He called the servant in waiting, and whispered an order to 
him. In a few moments the door re-opened, and a young girl 
appeared, bearing a silver basket of grapes. Her hair was 
golden, and, parted in front and confined on her temples with 
a silver thread, fell over her shoulders, a mass of curls. Her 
head was gracefully bent over the basket she carried, showing, 
in its most beautiful position, a swan -like neck. Her features 
were all symmetrical, and her mouth had that perfection of 
outline, that art can imitate, and that flexibility, obedient to 


306 


THE WHITE SC A It -F. 


every motion of tne soul, in which Nature is inimitable. Her 
dress was of rich materials, cut in the form prescribed to her 
rank. The mistresses were fond of illustrating their own 
generosity, or outdoing their rivals, by the rich liveries of then 
train, while they jealously maintained every badge of the gra 
dation of rank. Her dress was much in the fashion of a Swiss 
peasant girl of the present times. Her petticoat, of a fine 
light-blue cloth, was full and short, exposing a foot and ankle, 
that a queen might have envied her the power to show, and 
which she, however, modestly sheltered, with the rich silver 
fringe that bordered her skirt. Her white silk boddice was 
laced with a silver cord, and her short, full sleeves w'ere looped 
with cords and tassels of the same material. “ Can ye match 
this girl in Italy?” whispered the old man to Montano. 

11 In Italy ! nay, my lord, not in the world is there such 
another model of perfection !” replied Montano, who, changed 
as she was, by doffing her demi-cavalier dress, had, at a glance, 
recognized his acquaintance of the morning. 

11 Thank you ! Violette,” said Montagu, “ are these grapes 
from your own bower ?” 

a They are, my lord.” 

“ Then they must needs be sweeter than old Roland's, for 
they have been ripened by your bright eyes and sunny smiles.” 

11 Ah, but grandfather,” interposed little Pierre, “ Violette 
did not say that, when I asked her for her grapes. She said, 
they would only taste good to her father, for whom she reared 
them, and that I should love Roland’s better.” 

“ And why did you not thus answer me, Violette?” 

“ You asked for them, my lord, — : the master’s request is 
law to the servant.” 

u Grod forgive me, if I be such a master ! Take away the 
grapes, Violette, and send them, with what else ye will from 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


307 


the refectory, to the forester. Nay, no thanks, my pretty 
child, or, if you will, for all thanks let me kiss your cheek.” 
Yiolette stooped and offered her beautiful cheek, suffused 
with blushes, to Montagu’s lips. 

“ The old have marvellous privileges !” muttered De 
Roucy. The same thought was expressed in Montano’s 
glance, when his eye, as Yiolette turned, encountered hers. 
She involuntarily curtsied, as she recognized the gallant of 
the court. “ A very suitable greeting for a stranger, Yio- 
lette,” said the Grand-Master ; “ but this youth must have a 
kinder welcome from my household. It is Felice Montano, — 
my friend’s son, — give him a fitting welcome, my child.” 

“ Nobles and princes,” she replied, in a voice that set her 
words to music, “ have welcomes for your friends, my lord ; 
but such as a poor rustic can offer, she gives with all her 
heart.” She took from her basket of grapes a half-blown rose. 
“ Will ye take this, Signor ?” she said, “ it offers ye Nature’s 
sweet welcome.” 

Montano kissed the rose, and placed it in his bosom, as 
devoutly as if it had dropped from the hand of his patron 
saint. He then opened the small sack which his attendant 
had brought to the hotel, and which, at his request, had been 
laid on a side-table. It contained specimens of the most 
beautiful silks manufactured in his father’s filature in Lom- 
bardy, unrivalled in Italy. While these were spread out and 
displayed, to the admiration of the Grand-Master, he took 
from among them, a white silk scarf \ embroidered in silver 
with lilies of the valley, and, throwing it over Yiolette’s shoul- 
ders, he asked, if she “ would grace and reward their arts of 
industry by wearing it ?” 

“ If it were fitting, Signor, one to whom it is prescribed 


308 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


what bravery to wear, and how to wear it,” she replied, looking 
timidly, and doubtfully at the Grand-Master. 

“ It is not fitting,” interposed De Roucy. 

“And pray ye, Sir, why not?” asked Montagu; “we do 
not here allow, that gauds are for those alone who are born 
to them ; — beneath our roof-tree, the winner is the wearer ; — 
keep it, my pretty Yiolette, it well becomes thee.” Yiolette 
dropped on her knee, kissed the Grand-Master’s hand, and 
casting a look at Montano, worth, in his estimation, all the 
words of thanks in the French language, she disappeared. 


Montagu insisted, that during the time his young friend’s 
negotiations with the silk venders of Paris detained him there, 
he should remain an inmate of his family ; and nothing loath 
was Montano to accept a hospitality, which afforded him fa- 
cilities for every day seeing Yiolette. His affairs were pro- 
tracted ; day after day he found some plausible pretext, if 
pretext he had needed, for delaying his departure ; but, by his 
intelligence, his various information, and his engaging quali- 
ties, he had made such rapid advances in Montagu’s favour, 
that he rather wanted potent reasons to reconcile him to their 
parting. If such had been the progress of their friendship, we 
need not be surprised, that one little month sufficed to mature 
a more tender sentiment, a sentiment, that, in the young 
bosoms of southern climes, ripens and perfects itself with the 
rapidity of the delicious fruits of a tropical sun. Daily and 
almost hourly, Yiolette and Montano were together in bower 
and hall. Set aside by their rank from an equal association 
with the visitors of the Grand-Master, they enjoyed a com- 


THE WHITE SCARF, 


309 


plete immunity from any open interference with their happi- 
ness ; but Yiolette was persecuted with secret gallantries from 
De Roucy, that had become more abhorrent to her since her 
affections were consecrated to Montano. At the end of the 
month, their love was confessed and plighted ; — the Grand- 
Master had given his assent to their affiancing, and the Coun- 
tess de Roucy had yielded hers, glad to be relieved from a 
favourite, whom she had begun to fear as a rival. The eighth 
of October was appointed for their nuptials. “ To morrow 
morning, Yiolette,” said Montagu to her on the evening of 
the sixth, “ ye shall go and ask your father’s leave and bless- 
ing, and bid him to the wedding. Tell him,” he added, cast- 
ing a side-glance towards De Roucy, who stood at a little 
distance, eyeing the young pair “ with jealous leer malign,” 
“ that I shall envy him his son-in-law ; — nay, tell him not 
that, I will not envy any man aught ; my course has been one 
of prosperity and possession, — I have numbered threescore 
and fifteen years, — I am now in sight of the farther shore of 
life, and no man can interrupt my peaceful passage to it !” 

u Let no man count on that from which one hour of life 
divides him !” cried De Roucy, starting from his fixed pos- 
ture, and striding up and down the saloon. His words after- 
wards recurred to all that then heard him, as a prophecy. 

Montano asked, for his morning’s ride, an escort of six 
armed men. u I have travelled,” he said to tho Grand-Mas- 
ter, “ over your kingdom with no defence but my own good 
weapon, and with gold enough to tempt some even of your 
haughty lords to violence ; till now, I never felt fear, or used 
caution.” 

“ Because till now,” replied Montagu, “ your heart was 
not bound up in the treasure you exposed. That spirit is 
not human, that is not susceptible of fear.” 


310 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


The escort was kindly provided, and, by Montagu’s order 
furnished with baskets of fruit, wine, &c., to aid the extem- 
pore hospitalities of Viole'tte’s cottage-home. Before the sun 
had nearly reached the meridian, she was within sight of that 
dear home, on the borders of the Seine ; and her eyes filled 
with tears, as, pointing out to Montano each familiar object, 
she thought how soon she was to be far separated from these 
haunts of her childhood. It was a scene of sylvan beauty 
and rustic abundance. Stacks of corn and hay, protected 
from the weather, not only witnessed the productiveness of 
the well-cultured farm, but seemed to enjoy the security, with 
which they were permitted to lie on the lap of their mother 
earth, — a rare security in those times of rapine, when the 
lazy nobles might, at pleasure and with impunity, snatch 
from .the laborers the fruit of their toil. The cows were 
chewing the cud under the few trees of their sunny 
pasture, the sheep feeding on the hill-side, the domestic 
birds gossiping in the poultry-yard, and the oxen turning up, 
for the next summer’s harvest, the rich soil of fields whose 
product the proprietor might hope to reap, as he enjoyed, 
through the favour of the Grand-Master, the benefit of the act 
called an exemption de prise. Barante, Violette’s father, was 
lying on an oaken settle, that stood under an old pear-tree, 
laden with fruit, at his door. Two boys, in the perfection of 
boyhood, were eating their lunch and gambling on the grass 
with a little sturdy house-dog ; while an old, blind grand- 
mother sat within the door ; she was the first to catch the 
sound of the trampling of the horses’ hoofs. “ Look, Henri, 
who is coming,” she said. The dog and the boys started forth 
from the little court, and directly there was a welcoming bark, 
and shouts of , 11 It’s Violette ! it’s our dear sister !” Amidst 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


311 


this shouting and noisy joy, Violette made her way to her 
father’s arms, and the fond embrace of the old woman. 

“ And whom shall I bid welcome, Violette ?” asked Ba- 
rante, offering his hand to Montano. 

“ Signor Felice Montano,” answered Violette, her eyes cast 
down, and her cheek burning, as if, by pronouncing the name, 
she told all she had to tell. 

“ Welcome here, Sir,” resumed Barante ; “ye have come, 
doubtless, to see how poor folk live ?” and the good man 
looked round on his little domain with a very proud humility. 

“ Oh no, dear father ; he came not for that.” 

“ What did he come for, then, sister ?” asked little Hugh. 

“ I came not to see how you live,” said Montano, “ but to 
beg from you wherewith to live myself,” and, taking Barante 
aside, he unfolded his errand. 

“ Gome close to grandmother, Violette,” said Henri, “ and 
let her feel your russet gown. I am glad you come not home 
in your bravery, for then you would not seem like our own 
sister.” 

“ And yet,” said the old woman, with a little of that 
womanish feeling, that clings to the sex, of all conditions and 
ages, “ I think none would become it better ; — but, dear me, 
Lettie, how you’ve grown ! I can hardly reach to the top of 
your head.” 

“Not a hair’s breadth have I grown, grandmother, since I 
saw you last ; but now do I seem more natural ?” and she 
knelt down before the old woman. 

“ Yes, — yes, — now you are my own little Lettie again, — 
your head just above my knee. How time flies ! it seems but 
yesterday, when your mother was no higher than this, and it’s 
five years, come next All-Saints-Day, since we laid her in the 
cold earth. But why have you bound up your pretty curls in 


312 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


this net-work, Lettie ?” Henri playfully snatched the silver 
net from her head, and her golden curls fell over her shoul- 
ders. The old woman stroked, and fondly kissed them, and 
then passed her shrivelled fingers over Violette’s face, seeming 
to measure each feature. “ Oh, if I could but once more see 
those eyes, — I remember* so well their colour, — just like the 
violet that is dyed deepest with the sunbeams, — and that was 
why we call you Violette ; but, when they turned from the 
light, and glanced up through your long, dark eyelashes, they 
looked black ; so many a foolish one disputed with me the 
colour, as if I should not know, that had watched them by all 
lights, since they first opened on this world.” 

a Dear grandmother, I am kneeling for your blessing, and 
you are filling my head with foolish thoughts.” 

“ And there is another, who would fain have your bless- 
ing, good mother,” said Montano, whose hand Barante had just 
joined to Yiolette’s. 

u What ? — a stranger ! — who is this ?” 

u One, good mother, who craves a boon, which if granted, 
he desires nought else ; if denied, all else would be bootless to 
him.” 

11 What means he, Violette ?” 

“ Nothing, — and yet much, grandmother,” replied Violette, 
with a smile and a blush, that would, could the old woman 
have seen them, have interrupted Montano’s words. 

“ Ah, a young spark !” she said. “ It is ever so with 
them, — their cup foameth and sparkleth, and yet there is 
nothing in it.” 

“ 3ut there is much in it this time,” interposed Barante ; 
and, a little impatient of the periphrasing style of the young 
people, he proceeded to state, in direct terms, the character 
and purpose of his visitor, and said, in conclusion, “ I have 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


313 


given my consent and blessing ; for you know, mother, we 
can’t keep our Lettie, — we bring up our children for others, 
not for ourselves, and, when their time comes, they will, for 
it’s God’s law, leave their father’s house and cleave unto a 
stranger.” 

“ But why, dear Lettie,” asked the old woman, u do ye not 
wed among your own people ? why go among barbarians ?” 

~ Barbarians ! dear grandmother, — if ye knew all that I 
have learned of his people, from Felice Montano, ye would 
think we were the barbarians, instead of they. Why, grand- 
mother, Felice can both read and write like any priest, while 
our great lords can only make their mark. And so much do 
these Italians know of what the learned call the arts and sci- 
ences (I know not the meaning of the words, but Felice has 
promised to explain them to me, when we can talk of such 
things), that our people call them sorcerers .” 

“ Ah, well-a-day ! I thought how it would be, when the 
Lady Elinor took such a fancy to your bonnie face, and begged 
you away from us. But why cannot ye content yourself at the 
Grand-Master’s ?” 

“ Oh, ask me not to stay there. He is as kind as my 
father, and so is the Lady Elinor; but,” added Yiolette in a 
whisper, u her husband is a bold, bad man ; he hath said to me 
what it maketh me blush to recall.” 

“ Why need ye fear him, Yiolette ?” 

“Why fear him, grandmother ! If all be true that men 
whisper of him, he dares do whate’er the Evil One bids him. 
They say he was at the bottom of the horrid affair at the 
Hotel de St. Paul, and that, at Mans, he it was, that directed 
the mad King against the Chevalier de Polignac.”* 


* The two passages, here referred to, so well illustrate the character ol 

14 


314 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


“But surely, dear child, the Grand-Master can protect 


the times, that I am induced to translate them from Sismondi’s History of 
the French. 

“Among these festivals, there was one which terminated sadly. A 
widow, maid of honour to the Queen, was married a second time, to a certain 
Chevalier du Vermandois. The King ordered the nuptials to be celebrated 
at the palace. The nuptials of widows were occasions of extreme licentious- 
ness. Words and actions were permitted, which elsewhere would have 
called forth blushes, at a time when blushes were rare. The King, wishing 
to avail himself of the occasion, assumed, with five of his young courtiers, 
the disguise of a Satyr. Tunics besmeared with tar, and covered with tow, 
gave them, from head to foot, a hairy appearance. In this costume, they 
entered the festive hall, dancing. No one recognised them. While the 
five surrounded the bride, and embarrassed her with their dances, Charles 
left them to torment his aunt, the Duchess of Berri, who, though married 
to an old man, was the youngest of the princesses. She could not even 
conjecture who he was. In the mean time, the Duke of Orleans approached 
the others, with a torch in his hand, as if to reconnoitre their faces, and set 
fire to the tow. It was but a sally of mad sport on his part, though he was 
afterwards reproached with it, as if it were an attempt on his brother’s life. 
The King discovered himself to the Duchess of Berri, who covered him 
with her mantle, and conducted him out of the hall.” Four of the five 
perished. 

The historian, after saying that Charles, conducting his army into Brit- 
tany, left Mans one very hot day, and that, while riding over a sandy plain, 
under a vertical sun, and excited by a trifling accident and some random 
words of his fool, he became suddenly mad, proceeds ; “ He drew his 
sword, and putting his horse to his speed, and crying, ‘ On, on ! Down 
with the traitors !’ he fell upon the pages and knights nearest to him. No 
one dared defend himself otherwise than by flight, and, in this access of 
fury, he successively killed the bastard De Polignac, and three other men. 
At first the pages believed they had committed some disorder, which had 
enraged him ; but, when he attacked the Duke of Orleans, his brother, they 
perceived he had lost his reason.” The historian proceeds to say, that, not 
daring to control him, they agreed upon the expedient of letting him pursue 
them till he was exhausted ; but finally a Norman knight, much loved by 
the King, ventured to spring up behind him and pinion his arms. 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


315 


“ Now he can, — bu.t we know not how long his power may 
last. They say that he is far out of favour with Burgundy, 
and none standeth long, on whom he frowneth. Indeed, in- 
deed, dear grandmother, it is better your child should go away, 
to a safe shelter.” 

“Ye have given me many reasons ; but that ye love, is 
always enough for you young, ones. Well, — God speed ye, — 
ye must have your day ; kneel down, both, and take an old 
woman’s blessing, — it may do ye good, under good conduct — 
it can do ye no harm !” 

This ceremony over, the hoys, who had heard they were 
bidden to the wedding, and who thought not of the parting, 
nor any thing beyond it, were clamorous in their expressions 
of joy. Their father sent them, with some refection, to the 
men, who, at his bidding, had conducted their horses to a little 
paddock in the rear of his cottage, where they were refreshing 
them from his stores of provender. 

The day was passing happily away. Never had Yiolette 
appeared so lovely in Montano’s eyes, as in the atmosphere ot 
home, where every look and action was tinged by a holy light 
that radiated from the heart. Time passed as he always does 
when he “ only treads on flowers,” and the declining sun ad- 
monished them to prepare for their departure. “ But first,” 
said Barante, “ let us taste together our dear patron’s bounty. 
Unpack that hamper, boys, and you, dear Yiolette, serve us 
as you were wont.” Yiolette donned her little home-apron of 
white muslin, tied with sarsnet bows, and, spreading a cloth 
on the ground under the pear-tree, she and the boys arranged 
the wine, fruit, and various confections from the basket. “ It’s 
all sugar, Hugh !” said Henri, touching his tongue to the tip 
of a bird’s wing. “ And this is sugar, too, !” replied Hugh, 
testing in the same mode a bunch of mimic cherries. The 


316 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


French artistes already excelled all others in every depart- 
ment of the confectionary art, and to our little rustics their 
work seemed miraculous. “ Hark ye, Hugh !” said his brother ; 
“ I believe St. Francis dropped these from his pocket, as he 
flew over.”' 

“ Come, loiterers !” cried his father, “ while you are gaz- 
ing, we would be eating. Ah, that is right, Signor Montano ! 
Is it the last time, my pretty Yiolette V ’ to Yiolette and 
Montano, who were leading the old woman from her chair to 
the oaken settle. “ Come, sit by me, my child. Now we are 
all seated, we will fill the cup, and drink ‘ Many happy years 
to J ean de Montagu !’ ” 

As if to mark the futility of the wish, the progress of the 
cup to the lip was interrupted by an ominous sound ; and 
forth from the thick barrier of shrubbery, that fenced the 
northern side of the cottage, came twelve men, armed and 
masked. 

“ De Roucy ! God help us !” shrieked Yiolette. 

“ Seize her instantly, and off with her, as I bade ye!” 
cried a voice, that Montano recognised as the Count de 
Roucy’s. 

u Touch her at your peril, villain !” cried Montano, draw- 
ing his sword and shouting for his attendants. Montano and 
Barante, the latter armed only with a club, kept their as- 
sailants at bay till his men appeared, and they, inspired by 
their master’s example and adjurations, fought valiantly ! but 
one, and then another of their number fell, and the ruffians 
were two to one against Yiolette’s defenders. The rampart 
they had formed around her was diminishing. “ Courage, my 
boys, courage !” cried Barante, as he shot a glance at his 
children, crouching round his old mother, motionless as panic* 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


317 


struck birds. “ Courage ! G-od and the Saints are on our 
side !” 

“ Beat them back, my men !” shouted Montano. Jean de 
Montagu will reward ye !” 

“ Jean de Montagu !” retorted De Roucy, “his bones are 
cracking on the rack ! Ah ! I’m wounded !— ’tis but a 
scratch ! — seize her, Le Croy ! — press on, my men ! — the 
prize is ours !” But they, seeing their leader fall back, for an 
instant fajtered. 

A thought, as if from Heaven, inspired Montano. De 
Roucy, to avoid giving warning of his approach, had left his 
horses on the outer side of the wood. Montano’s attendants 
had, just before the onset of De Roucy’s party, saddled their 
master’s horse, and led him to the gate of the court ; there 
he was now standing, and the passage from Violette to him 
unobstructed. Once on him and started, thought Montano, 
she may escape. “ Mount my horse, Violette,” he cried, “ fear 
nothing, — we will keep them back, — Heaven guard you !” 
Violette shot from the circle, like an arrow loosed from the 
bow, unfastened the horse, and sprang upon him. He had 
* been chafing and stamping, excited by the din of arms, and 
impatient of his position ; and, as she leaped into the saddle, 
he sprang forward, swift as an arrow from the Tartar’s bow. 
Violette heard the yell of the ruffians mingling , with the 
victorious shouts of her defenders. Once her eye caught 
the flash of their arms ; but whether they were retreating or 
still stationary, she knew not. She had no distinct percep- 
tion, no consciousness, but an intense desire to get on faster 
than even her flying steed conveyed her. There were few 
persons on the road, though passing through the immediate 
vicinity of a great city. Many of those, who cultivated the 
environs of Paris, had their dwellings, for greater security, 


318 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


within the walls ; and, their working-day being over, they had 
already retired within them.* 

From a hostelrie , where a party of cavaliers were revel- 
ling, there were opposing shouts of “ Stop !” and “ God speed 
ye !” and, of the straggling peasants returning from market, 
some crossed themselves, fancying this aerial figure, with 
colourless face and golden hair streaming to the breeze, was 
some demon in angelic form ; and others knelt and murmured 
a prayer, believing it was indeed an angel. She had just 
made a turn in the road, which brought her within sight of 
Notre Dame and the gates of Paris, when she heard the 
trampling of horses coming rapidly on behind her. Her horse 
too heard the sound, and, as if conscious of his sacred trust and 
duty, redoubled his speed. The sounds approached nearer and 
nearer, and now were lost in the triumphing shouts of her 
pursuers. Violette’s head became giddy ; a sickening despair 
quivered through her frame. “ We have her now !” cried the 
foremost, and stretched his hand to grasp her rein. The 
action gave a fresh impulse to her horse. He was within a 
few yards of the barriers. He sprang forward, and in an 
instant was within the gates. “We are balked !” cried the 
leader of the pursuit, reining in his horse ; and pouring out a 
volley of oaths, he ordered his men to retreat, saying, it was 
more than the head of a follower of De Roucy was worth, to 
venture within the barriers. As the sounds of the retiring 
party died away, Yiolette’s horse slackened his speed, and 
was arrested by the captain of the guard, who had just begun 


* “In despotic countries, rights are only respected inasmuch as they 
are sustained by power. The inhabitants of towns, even the poorest, 
had a certain degree of force. Their title, bourgeois , in the German, 
whence it is derived, means confederates , a reciprocal responsibility.” — 
Etudes de V Economic Politique, par Sismondi. 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


319 


the patrol for the night. To his questions Yiolette replied 
not a word. Her consciousness was gone, and exhausted and 
fainting, she slid from the saddle into his arms. Fortunately 
he was a humane man ; he was touched with her youthful and 
lovely face ; and, not knowing to what other place of shelter 
and security to convey her, he procured a litter, and carried 
her to his own humble home, where he consigned her to the 
care of his good wife Susanne. There being then little pro- 
vision for the security of private property and individual 
rights, Montano’s horse was classed among those strays , that, 
in default of an owner, escheated to the King, and was sent, 
by the guard, to the King’s stables ; and thus all clue to 
Montano was lost. 

As soon as Yiolette recovered her consciousness, her first 
desire was to get news of those whom she had left in extremest 
peril ; and, as the readiest means of effecting this, she en- 
treated the compassionate woman, who was watching at her 
bedside, to send her to the Grand-Master. 

“ The Grand-Master !” replied the good dame ; u Mary 
defend us ! what would ye with him ?” 

Yiolette, in feeble accents, explained her relations with 
him, and her hope, through him, to obtain news of her friends. 
Susanne answered her with mysterious intimations, which im- 
plied, not only that he, whom she deemed her powerful pro- 
tector, could do nothing for her, but that it was not even safe 
to mention his name ; and then after promising her that a 
messenger should be despatched, in the morning, to her 
father’s cottage, she administered the common admonitions 
and consolations, that seem so very wise and sufficient to the 
bestower, — are so futile to the receiver. “ She must hope for 
the best — “ she must cast aside her cares — “ sleep would 
tranquillize her “ brighter hours might come with the 


320 


THE WHITE SCARF 


morning ; but if they came not, she might live to see what 
seemed worst now, to be best, and, at any rate, grieving would 
not help her.” 

Thus it has been from the time of Job’s comforters to 
the present ; words have been spoken to the wretched, as im 
potent as the effort of the child, who stretching his arm 
against a torrent, expects to hold it back ! But, to do Dame 
Susanne justice, she acted as well as spoke ; and the next 
morning a messenger was sent, and returned in due time with 
news, which no art could soften to Violette. Her father’s 
cottage was burned to the ground, and all about it laid waste. 
Some peasants reported that they had seen the flames during 
the night, and men, armed and mounted, conveying off what- 
ever was portable, and driving before them Barante’s live 
stock. What had become of the poor man, his children, and 
old mother, no one knew ; but there were certain relics among 
the ashes, which too surely indicated they had not all escaped. 
Poor Violette had strength neither of body nor mind left, to 
sustain her under such intelligence. She was thrown into a 
delirious fever, during which she raved continually about her 
murdered family and Montano, who was never absent from 
her thoughts. But, whatever an individual sufferer might 
feel, such scenes of marauding and violence were too common 
to excite surprise. “ Barante,” it was said, “ had but met at 
last the fate of all those, who were fools enough to labor and 
heap up riches, for the idle and powerful to covet and enjoy.” 

This feeling was natural and just in the labouring classes, 
when the valets of princes were legalized robbers, and were 
permitted, whenever their masters’ Idle followers were to be 
accommodated, not only to slay the working man’s beeves, 
and appropriate the produce of his fields, but to enter his 
house and sweep off the blankets that covered him, and the 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


321 


pillows on which his children were sleeping. Those, who 
fancy the world has made no moral progress, should read 
carefully the history of past ages, and compare the condition 
of the labourers then, like so many defenceless sheep on the 
borders of a forest filled with beasts of prey, to the security 
and independence of our working sovereigns. They would 
find, that the jurisdiction of that celebrated judge, who unites 
in his own person the threefold power of judge, jury, and 
executioner, was then exercised by the armed and powerful ; 
that it was universal and unquestioned ; whereas now, if he 
ventures his summary application of Lynch law , his abuses 
are bruited from Maine to Georgia, and men shake their heads 
and sigh over the deterioration of the world, and the licen- 
tiousness of liberty ! 

On the ninth day of her illness, while Susanne was stand- 
ing by Yiolette, she awoke from her first long sleep. Her 
countenance was changed, her flaming colour was gone, and 
her eye was quiet. She feebly raised her head, and, bursting 
into tears, said, “ Oh, why did you not wake me sooner?” 

“ Why should I wake you, dear ?” 

“ Why ! do you not hear that dreadful bell ?” The great 
bell of Notre Dame was tolling. “ They will be buried, — the 
boys and all, — all, — before I get there !” 

11 Dieu-merci , child, your people are not going to the 
burial ; — that bell tolls not for such as yours and mine. W e 
are thrown into the earth, and Notre Dame wags not her 
proud tongue for us.” 

“ Ah, true, — true.” She pressed her hand on her head, as 
if collecting her thoughts ; and then, looking up timidly and 
shrinking from the answer, slTe said, “ Ye’ve heard nothing 
of them ?” 

Nothing as yet ; but you are better, and that’s a token 

14 * 


322 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


of more good to follow. Now rest again. It is a noisy day. 
All the world is abroad. It’s the nobles’ concern, not ours , 
so I pray ye sleep again, and, whatever ye hear, lift not your 
head ; there he throngs of bad men in the street, and where 
such are, there may be ugly sights. I will go below, and keep 
what quiet I can for ye.” 

Susanne’s dwelling was old and rickety. The apart- 
ment under that which Yiolette occupied, was a little shop, 
where Dame Susanne vended cakes, candies, and common 
toys. Yiolette could hear every sentence spoken there in an 
ordinary tone ; but, owing to Susanne’s well-meant effortSj her 
ear caught only imperfect sentences, such as follow. 

“ Good day. Mistress Susanne ! will you lend me a look- 
out from your window to see the ” 

“ Hush !” 

“ They’re coming, mother ! they’re coming !” 

“ Hush !” 

“ There are Burgundy’s men first ; ye’ll know them, boy, 
by the cross of St. Andrew on their bonnets ; and there are 
the Armagnacs, — see their scarfs !” 

“ Speak lower, please neighbour !” 

“ It’s well for them they have provided against a rescue ; 
— the bourgeois are all for him, — every poor man’s heart is 
for him ; for why ? he was for every poor man’s right ; God 
reward him.” 

“ Pray speak a little lower, neighbour.” 

u But is it not a shame, Dame Susanne ? But ten days 
ago and all, save Burgundy, were his friends, and now ” 

“ There he is mother ! see ! see !” 

11 They stop ! oh, mother, s£e him show his broken joints ! 
Mother ! mother ! how his head hangs on one side ! Curse 
on the rack, that cracked his bones asunder !” 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


323 


“ Hush ! I bid ye hush !” 

“ Who can that goodly youth he, that stands close by his 
side? See, he is speaking to him !” 

u Oh, he looks like an angel, — so full of pity, mother ! 

“By St. Dominic, neighbour, the boy is right!” 

“ Oh, mother, what eyes he has ; — now he is looking up, — 
see !” 

“ Hush !” 

“ But look at them, Dame Susanne, — would ye not think 
the lamp of his soul was shining through them ?” 

“ See him kiss the poor, broken hand, that hangs down so ! 
God bless him ! there’s true courage in that ; and see those 
same lips, how they curl in scorn, as he turns towards those 
fierce wretches ! He is some stranger-youth. Whence is he, 
think ye, Susanne ?” 

u I think by the cut of his neckcloth, and the fashion of 
his head-gear,” replied Susanne, who for a moment forgot her 
caution, u he comes from Italy P 

The words were talismanic to Yiolette. She sprang from 
her bed to the window, and the first object she saw amid a 
crowd was Montano ; the second, her protector and friend, 
Jean de Montagu, the Grand-Master. He was stretched on a 
hurdle, for the torments of the rack had left him unable to 
sustain an upright position. Violette’s eye was riveted to the 
mutilated form of her good old master. Her soul seemed 
resolved into one deep supplication ; but not one word ex- 
pressed its intense emotions, so far did they u transcend the 
imperfect offices of prayer.” Not one treacherous glance 
wandered to her lover, till the procession moved ; and then 
the thought, that she was losing her last opportunity of being 
reunited to him, turned the current of feeling, and suggested 
an expedient, which she immediately put into execution. 


324 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


She had taken her white scarf, in her pocket, to the cottage, 
to show it to her father ; and through her delirium she had 
persisted in keeping it by her. She now hung it in the win- 
dow, in the hope, that, fluttering in the breeze, it might at- 
tract Montano’s eye. She watched him, but his attention 
was too fixed to be diverted by any thing, certainly not by a 
device so girlish. The procession moved on. The hurdle, 
and the stately figure beside it, were passing from her view. 
She threw the casement open, and leaned out. The scaffold, 
erected at the end of the street, struck her sight. She 
shrieked, fainted, and fell upon the floor. That one moment 
gave the colour to her after-life. She had been seen, and 
marked, — and was remembered. 


The Duke of Burgundy had taken advantage of a moment, 
when Charles was but partially recovered from a fit of insani- 
ty, to compass the Grand-Master’s ruin. The nobles had 
wept at Montagu’s execution, but they had been consoled by 
the rich spoils of his estate. •There was no such balm for 
the sovereign ; and it became a matter of policy to get up 
some dramatic novelty to divert his mind, and prevent a re- 
currence to the past, which might prove dangerous, even to 
Burgundy. Accordingly, a new mystery was put in train for 
presentation, and one month after the last act of Montagu’s 
tragedy, and while his dishonoured body was still attached to 
the gibbet of Montfau^on, the gay world of Paris assembled, 
to witness the representation of a legend of a certain saint, 
called “ The Espousals of St. Therese.” 

The seat over which the regal canopy was suspended, cor- 
responded to our stage-box. and afforded an access to the 


THE WHITE SCARP. 


325 


stage, that royalty might use at pleasure. The King was 
surrounded by his own family. His wandering eye, his va- 
cant laugh, and incessant talking, betrayed the still disor- 
dered state of his mind ; for when sane, amidst a total desti- 
tution of talents and virtues, he had a certain affability of 
manner, and the polish of conventional life, which, as his his- 
torian says, acquired for him the “ ridiculous title of 1 well- 
beloved? ” On Charles’s right sat his Queen, Isabel of 
Bavaria, a woman remarkable for nothing but excessive 
obesity, the gluttony that produced it, and the indolence 
consequent upon it, — and one passion, avarice. But she was 
a branch of transmitted royalty — and ruled by divine right ! 
(And sovereigns, such as these, are, in some men’s estimation, 
rulers.) Behind the Queen, a place was left vacant for the 
Duke of Orleans who, in consequence of a marvellous escape 
from death during a thunder-storm, when his horses had 
plunged into the Seine, had vowed to pay his creditors, 
and had, on that very day, bidden them to dinner, at which 
he had promised the dessert should be a satisfaction of their 
debts. u So soon from your dinner, my lord ?” said his 
Duchess to him as he entered, with an expression of face, 
which indicated a fear that all had not gone as she wished. 
u Yes. A short horse is soon curried.” 

“ What* 1 ? Came they not ? Surely of the eight hundred 
bidden, there were many who would not do you such discre- 
dit, as to believe your virtue exhaled with the shower?” 

u Ah, their faith was sufficient, — they came, every mo- 
ther’s son of them, butchers, bakers, fruiterers, and all.” 

11 Arid you sent them away happy ?” 

(i Yes, with one of the beatitudes; — blessed are those 
who have nothing ! I charged my valets to turn them back 


326 


the white 'scarf. 


from my gate, and to tell them, if they came again, they 
should he beaten off !” 

There was a general laugh through the box. The 
Duchess of Orleans alone turned away with an expression of 
deep mortification. Valentine Visconti, daughter of the Duke 
of Milan and Duchess of Orleans, was one of the most cele- 
brated women of her time. Her graceful beauty seemed the 
impersonation of her .lovely land — something quite foreign to 
the French court. As she sat by the gross queen, she inspired 
the idea of what humanity might become, when invested with 
the “ glorified body” of the Saints. Her soul beamed with 
almost preternatural lustre from her eyes, and spoke in the 
musical accents of her beautiful lips. Her gentleness and 
sympathy, more than the intellectual power and accomplish- 
ments. that signalized her amidst a brutified and ignorant 
race, gave her an ascendency over the mad King, which af- 
forded some colour to the wicked imaginations of those who, in 
the end, accused her of sorcery ! — an accusation very common 
against the Italians of that period, whose superior civilization 
and science were attributed to the diabolical arts of magic. 
The secret of Valentine’s power over the maniac King has 
been discovered and illustrated by modern benevolence. She 
could lead him like a little child, when, for months, he would not 
consent to be washed or dressed, and when these offices were 
performed at night by ten men, masked, lest, when their sov- 
ereign recovered all the reason he ever possessed, he should 
cause them to be hung for this act of necessary violence ! 

The spectators, while awaiting the rising of the curtain, 
were exchanging the usual observations and salutations. “Va- 
lentine,” whispered the beautiful young wife of the old Duke 
of Berri, “ did not that man, — 7non Dieu , how beautiful he is ! 
— who stands near the musicians, kiss his hand to you?” 


THE WHITE SCARP. 


327 


“ Yes, — he is my countryman.” 

11 1 thought so ; — he looks as if the blood of all your proud 
old nobles ran in his veins ; — the Confalonieris, Sforzas, Vis- 
contis, and Heaven knows who.” 

(i He has a loftier nobility than theirs, my cousin ; his 
charter is direct from Heaven, and written by the finger of 
Heaven on his noble countenance. As to this world’s ho- 
nours, he boasts none but such as the son of a rich and skilful 
weaver of silks may claim.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! is it possible ; he is a counterfeit, that 
well might pass in any King’s exchequer. But he looks sad 
and abstracted, and, seeing, seemeth as though he saw not. 
Know ye, cousin, what aileth him ?” 

“ Yes, but it is a long tale ; the lady of his thoughts has 
strangely disappeared, and, though for more than a month he 
has sought her, day and night, he hath, as yet, no trace of her. 
He has come hither to-night at my bidding, for I deeply pity 
the poor youth, and would fain divert his mind ; — but soft, — 
the curtain is rising !” 

u Pray tell me what means this scene, V alentine ?” 

“ It is the interior of a chapel. You know this legend of 
St. Therese?” 

“ Indeed I do not. I cannot read, and my confessor never 
told it to me.” 

“ She was betrothed to one she loved. The preparations 
were made for the espousals, when, on the night before her 
marriage, she saw, in vision, St. Francis, who bade her re- 
nounce her lover, and told her, that she was the elected bride 
of Heaven ; that she must repair to the convent of the Sisters 
of Charity, and there resign the world, and abjure its sinful 
passions. You now see her obedient to the miraculous visita- 
tion. She has concluded her novitiate. One weakness she 


328 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


has as Jet indulged. She has secretly retained the last gift 
of her betrothed. Hark ! there you hear the vesper-bell. 
She is coming to deposit it at that shrine, yonder.” 

A female now entered, closely veiled and clad in a full, 
gray stuff dress, that concealed every line of her person. She 
held something in her hands, which were folded on her bosom, 
and walking, with faltering steps, across the stage to the 
shrine, knelt and made the accustomed signs and prayer. 
She then rose, and raising the little roll to her lips, kissed it 
fervently, and then, as if asking pardon for this involuntary 
weakness, again dropped on her kness, and depositing the roll, 
withdrew. It would seem, she had entered completely into 
the tender regrets of the young saint she impersonated, for a 
tear she had dropped on the last bequest of the lover was 
seen, as it caught and reflected the lamp’s rays. Immediately, 
through an open window in the ceiling, a dove entered, the 
symbol of the Holy Spirit. It was not uncommon, in these " 
mysteries, to bring the sacred persons of the Trinity upon 
the scene. The bird descended, and took the roll in his |>ill. 
As he rose with it. it unfolded, and the ivhite silk scarf \ given 
to poor Yiolette, represented the last earthly treasure of 
Saint Therese. The dove made three evolutions in his as- 
cent, and disappeared. While the cries of u Bravo ! Bravis- 
simo! Petit oiseaul Jolie colombe!” were resounding through 
the house, the Duchess de Berri whispered to Valentine, 

“ See your compatriot ! he looks as if he would spring upon 
the stage ! how deadly pale ! and his eyes ! blessed Mary ! 
they are like living fires ! Surely he is going mad !” 

“Heaven help him!” replied the gentle Valentine. “I 
erred in counselling him to come hither! Would I could 
speak with him.” 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


329 


“ Never mind him now, cousin ; the scene is changing ; — 
tell me, what comes next ?” 

“ Next you will see St. Therese praying before her cru- 
cifix, — ah, there she is ! there is the coffin in which she 
sleeps at night, — there the death’s-head she contemplates 
all day.” 

“ Shocking ! shocking ! I never would be a nun.” 

“ It is but for the last days of her penitence. After her 
vows are made, she, like all her order, will be devoted to 
nursing the sick, and succouring the wretched, — a happier life 
than ours, my cousin !” 

u Think ye so ? Methinks the next world will be soon 
enough to be a saint, and do much tiresome good deeds. But 
why has she that ugly mantle drawn over her head, so that 
one cannot see her hair, or the form of her neck and shoul- 
ders ?” 

“Be not so impatient. You see the door behind her. 
The Devil is coming into her cell under the form of her lover. 
Ah, there he is !” 

u Bless my heart, if I were the Devil, I would never leave 
that goodly form again. Now she’ll turn ! now we shall see 
her face ! Pshaw ! she has pulled that ugly mantle over, for 
a veil.” 

“ Pray be still, cousin ; — this is her last temptation. I 
would not lose a word. Listen, — hear how she resists the 
prince of darkness.” 

The pretended lover performed his part so as to do 
honour to the supernatural power he represented. At first, 
he would have embraced the saint ; but she shrunk from 
him, and, reverently placing her hand on the crucifix, stood 
statue-like against the wall. He then knelt and poured out 
his passion vehemently. He reminded her of their early 


330 


THE, WHITE SCARF, 


love,« — of the home, where he had wooed and won her ; he 
besought her to speak to him, — once to withdraw her veil, 
and look at him. She w T as still silent and immovable. He 
described the wearisome and frigid existence of a conven- 
tual life, and then painted, in passionate words, the happiness 
that awaited him, if she would but keep her first vow, made 
to him. He told her, that horses awaited them at the out- 
ward gate. The force of the temptation now became appa- 
rent. The weak, loving girl, was triumphing over the saint. 
Her head dropped on her bosom, her whole frame trembled, 
and was sinking. Her lover saw his triumph and sprang 
forward to seize her. But her virtue was re-nerved ; she 
grasped the crucifix, and looking up to a picture of the Vir- 
gin, shrieked, “ Mary, blessed mother ! aid me !.” 

The Evil One extended his arm to wrest the crucifix, 
when, smitten by its holy virtue, he sunk through the floor, 
enveloped in flames. The saint again fell on her knees, the 
dove again descended and fluttered around her, and the cur- 
tain fell. 

In those days, when conventual life had lost nothing of 
its sacredness, and men’s minds were still subjected to a belief 
in the visible interference of good and evil spirits in men’s 
concerns, such a scene was most effective. The spectators 
were awed ; not a sound was heard, till the Duchess of Berri, 
never long abstracted from the actual world, whispered, “ Val- 
entine, did you see your Italian when she shrieked ; how he 
struck his hand upon his head ! and see him now, what a colour 
in his cheek ! He will certainly go mad, and, knowing you, 
he may dart hither before we can avoid him. Will ye not ask 
Orleans to order those men at arms to conduct him out? — 
you know,” in a whisper, “ I have such a horror of madmen.” 

u You need have none, believe me, in this case. My poor 


THE WHITE SCARF 


331 


countryman is suffering from watching and exhaustion, and 
his imagination is easily excited. The next scene will calm 
him. The saint, victorious over the most importunate of 
mortal passions, will resolutely make her vows, and receive 
the veil.” 

“ Oh, then we shall see her face, after all ?” 

c Yes, and with all the factitious charm that dress and 
ornament can lend it ; for, to render her renunciation of the 
world more striking, she is to appear in a bridal dress, decked 
with the vanities that we women cling last to but hush ! 
the curtain is rising !” 

The curtain rose, and discovered the chapel of a convent. 
The nuns and their superior stood on one side, a priest and 
attendants on the other. A golden crucifix was placed in 
the centre, with a figure of the Saviour, as large as life. Be- 
fore this, St. Therese was kneeling. Her dress was white 
silk, embroidered with pearls, with a full sleeve, looped to the 
shoulder with pearls. A few symbolical orange-buds drooped 
over her forehead, certainly not whiter than the brow on 
which they rested. Her hair was parted in front, and drawn 
up behind in a Grecian knot of rich curls, and fastened there 
with a diamond cross. She was pale as monumental marble ; 
her eyes not raised to Heaven, but riveted to earth, as if she 
were still clinging to the parting friend. The priest advanced 
to cut off her hair, the last office previous to investing her 
with the gray gown and fatal veil. As he unfastened the 
diamond cross, her bright tresses fell over her neck and shoul- 
ders, and, reaching even to the ground, gave the finishing 
touch to her beauty, and called forth a general shout of 
“ Beautiful ! beautiful ! most beautiful !” 

Over every other voice, and soon stilling every other, was 
heard the King’s, and, seized with an access of madness, he 


332 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


rushed upon the stage clapping his hands and screaming , a She 
is mine ! my bride ! Out with ye, ugly nuns ! She is mine ! 
mine !” Each reiteration was followed by a maniac yell. 

u Nay, she is mine ! my own Yiolette ! my betrothed 
wife !” interposed Montano, springing forward and encircling 
Yiolette with one arm, while he repelled Charles with the 
other. 

, A general rising followed. The stage was filled with the 
nobles, rushing forward to chastise the stranger who had pre- 
sumed to lay his hands on sacred majesty. A hundred wea- 
pons were drawn, and pointed at Montano. There was a 
Babel confusion of sounds. At this crisis, Yalentine pene- 
trated into the midst of the melee , whispering, as she passed 
Montano, “ Be quiet — be prudent — leave all to me.” 

The lords, who had more than once seen her power over 
the madness of their sovereign, fell back. She placed herself 
between the King and Montano, and putting her hand sooth- 
ingly on Charles, she said, with a smile, “ Methinks, my lord 
King, we are all beside ourselves with this bewitching show, — 
we know not who or what we are. Here is a churl hath 
dared to come between the King and his subject, and you, 
my sovereign,” (in a whisper), have strangely forgotten your 
Queen’s presence. Unhand that maiden, .sir stranger. Kneel, 
my child, to your gracious sovereign, and let him see you 
loyally hold yourself at his disposal.” Yiolette mechanically 
obeyed. 

“ Nay, my pretty one, kneel not,” said Charles, still wild, 
but no longer violent. “ Ah, I had forgot ! here are the 
bridal orange-buds. Come, come, you lazy priest, — come 
marry us !” Yiolette looked as if she would fain again take 
refuge in Montano’s arms. 

“ To-morrow, my lord King, will surely be soon enough,” 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


333 


whispered Yalentine with a confidential air, and, pointing to 
Isabel, she added, “ it would not seem well to have the rites 
performed in her presence !” The Queen, with characteristic 
nonchalance, had remained quietly in her place, where she 
seemed quite absorbed in devouring a bunch of delicious 
grapes. 

“ You are right, dear sister ,” replied the King, — thus, in 
his softened moods, he always addressed Y alentine,— “ it is 
not according to church rule to marry one wife in presence of 
another !” He then burst into a peal of idiotic laughter, 
which, after continuing for some moments, left him in a state 
of imbecility, so nearly approaching to unconsciousness, that 
he was conveyed to his palace without making the slightest 
resistance. 

A general movement followed the King’s departure, and 
cries rose, that the stranger must be manacled and conveyed 
to prison. The Duchess of Orleans interposed. “ My lords,” 
she saidj “ I pray ye give this youth into my charge. He is 
my countryman. I will be responsible for him to our gracious 
sovereign.” There were murmurings of hesitation and dis- 
content. “ In sooth, my lords,” added Yalentine, “ ye should 
not add an injustice to a stranger to our usages, to the error 
you have already committed this night, in bringing our royal 
master, but half recovered from his malady, into this heated 
atmosphere and exciting scene ; — it were well, if we can avoid 
it, to preserve no memorials of this night’s imprudence.” This 
last hint effected what an appeal to their justice had failed to 
obtain, and the lords permitted Montano unmolested to with- 
draw with the Duchess of Orleans. 

Intent on making those happy, who could be happy, Y al- 
entine bade Montano and Yiolette attend her to her carriage. 
After weeping with joy on her lover’s bosom, Yiolette’s first 


334 


THE WHITE SCARF. 


words were, “ My father, — my brothers, Montano, can ye tell 
me aught of them V ? * 

“ They are safe, — safe and well, in all save their ignorance 
of you, dear Violette” replied Montano ; “ and by this time 
are they arrived in my happy country.” 

“ Thank God ! — and my dear old grandmother ?” 

“ Nay, ask no farther to-night.” 

“ Better it is, my good friend,” said Valentine, “ to satisfy 
her inquiry now, while her cup is full and sparkling with joy ; 
— you can bear, my child, patiently a single bitter drop ?” 

“ She was murdered, then ?” 

“ She is at rest, my child, — you may weep, — we should 
weep for the good and kind.” 

Before the little party separated for the night, Violette 
explained, that in consequence of having been seen at the win- 
dow on the day of Montagu’s execution, she had been sought 
out by the managers of the mystery, and compelled, in the 
King’s name, to obey their behests. 

“And to-morrow,” said Valentine, “ ye shall obey mine. 
I, too, will be the manager of a mystery, and real espousals 
shall be enacted by Montano and Violette ; then, ho ! for my 
happy country.” 


FANNY M C D E R M 0 T. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Then said she, “ I am very dreary, 

He will not come,” she said. 

She wept . — u I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh God, that I were dead !” 

Invention need not be taxed for incidents fitted to touch 
the heart, nor need they he heightened with the dyes of 
romance. The daily life of our own cities abounds in events 
over which, if there be tears in heaven, surely the angels weep. 
It is not to draw tears, which flow too easily from susceptible 
young readers, that the following circumstances are related, 
but to set forth dangers to which many are exposed, and vices 
which steep the life God has given as a blessing, in dis- 
honour, misery, and remorse. 

A few years since, there lived on the east side of our city, 
where cheap and wretched residences abound, one Sara Hyat. 
Sara was a widow, not young, nor pretty, nor delicate, with none 
of the elements of romantic interest ; but old, tall, angular, and 
coarse, with a face roughened by hardship, sharpened by time, 
and channeled by sorrow. Her voice was harsh, and her 


336 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


manner ungracious. There was one, and but one sign, and 
that a faint one. that she might once have partaken the weak- 
nesses of her sex. She wore that hideous supplement to the 
hair which women call “ a foretop,” and not being very exact 
in the adjustment of her cap, the juxtaposition of the foxy 
auburn exotic and the indigenous silver hairs set off this little 
lingering of vanity rather strikingly. 

But as all is not gold that glitters, and beauty is but skin 
deep, and under a rough shell is often found excellent meat ; 
so under Mrs. Hyat’s rough exterior, there were strong com- 
mon sense, a spirit of rectitude, a good conscience, and 
affections that the rough usage of the world had not abated. 

These had attached her with devotion and self-sacrifice to one 

/ 

object after another, as the relations of life had changed, first 
binding her in loving duty to her parents and sisters, then to 
her husband and children, and finally, when, one after another, 
they had dropped into the grave, settling on the only one in 
whose veins a drop of her blood ran, a little orphan grand- 
niece. 

u A sweeter thing they could not light upon.” Go with us 
up a crazy staircase, at the extremity of Houston Street. If 
you chance to look in at the door of the rooms you pass, you 
will see, — it being Sunday, — an entire Irish family, father, 
mother, half-a-dozen children, more or less, with a due allow- 
ance of cousins, all plump, rosy, and thriving (in the teeth of 
the physical laws) on plenty of heterogeneous food, and super- 
fluity of dirt. On entering Mrs. Hyat’s rooms, you are in 
another country ; the tenants are obviously Americans : it is 
so orderly, quiet, and cleanly, and rather anti-social. There 
are only an old woman and a little girl ; the bud of spring- 
time, and the seared leaf of autumn. The only dirt in the 
room (you almost wonder the old woman tolerates it there) 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


337 


is in two flower-pots in the window, whence a white jessamine, 
and a tea-rose diffuse their sweet odours. 

A table is decently spread for the mongrel meal that our 
people call supper, which blends the substantial food of dinner, 
with the aromatic tea, and its sweet accompaniments of pastry, 
cake, or preserves. The tea-kettle is hissing on the stove, and 
a pie is warming there. The old woman sits in her rocking- 
chair, weaving backwards and forwards, reading a time-dis- 
coloured letter, while a little girl (the only thing in harmony 
with the rose and jessamine in the window), laying aside a 
tract she is reading, says, “ Aunt Sara, don’t you know every 
word in that letter by heart ? I do.” 

“ Why, do you Fanny ? Say it then.” 

“ My dear Aunt, 

“ I am clean discouraged. It seems as if Providence 
crowded on me. There is black disappointment, turn which 
way I will. I have had an offer to go to Orleans, and part 
pay beforehand, which same I send you herewith. 

“ Selina’s time draws near, and it is the only way I have 
to provide ; so dear Aunt Sara, I think it my duty to go. 
I can’t summon courage to bid you good-bye. I can’t speak 
a word to her. I should not be a man again in a month if I 
tried. You have been a mother to me, Aunt Sara, and if God 
spares my life, I’ll be a dutiful son to you in the place of them 
that’s gone. If any thing happens to my poor wife, you will 
see to my child, I know, 

u Your dutiful nephew, 

u James McDermot. 

“ New-York, 25 September, 1827.” 

« I declare Fanny, you have said it right, date and all, 
and what a date it was to me, that 25th of September : — that 
15 


338 


FANNY M°DERMOT. 


day your father sailed — that very day you were bom — and 
that very day, when the tide went out, your mother died ; — 
life coming — life going — and the dear life of my last boy 
launched on the wide sea. My boy I always called your 
father ; he was like my own sons to me. He lived just one 
week after he got to Orleans, and the news came Evacuation 
Day. We have always been, that is, the Rankin side, a dread- 
ful family for dying young — all but me. I’ve lived to follow 
all my folks to the grave. My thrt*j boys I have seen laid in 
the ground ; full grown, six feet men, and here I am, my 
strength failing, my eyes dim, working, shivering, trembling on.” 

Poor little Fanny shivered too, and putting some more 
wood into the stove, she asked her aunt if it were not time 
for supper ; but Mrs. Hyat, without hearing her, went on, 
rather talking to herself, than the child. “ There has always 
been something notable about times and seasons, with our 
folks. I was born the day the revolutionary war was declared 
— my oldest was born the day Washington died ; my youngest 
sister, your grandmother, Fanny, died the day of the Total 
Eclipse ; my husband died the day that last pesky little war 
was declared ; your father saw your mother the first time 
’lumination night, and as I said, it was Evacuation Day, we 
got the news of his death ; poor Jemmy ! what a dutiful boy 
he was to me ! half my life went with his ! How that letter 
is printed on your memory, Fanny ! But you have better 
learning than ever I had, and that makes the difference ! 
Learning is not all though, Fanny ; you must have prudence. 
Did I not hear you talking on the stairs yesterday with some 
of them Irish cattle ?” 

“Yes, aunt, I was thanking Mrs. 0‘Roorke for bringing 
up my pail of water for me.” 

“ That was not it, ’twas a racket with the children I 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


339 


heard.” Fanny made no reply. “ I won’t have it, Fanny ; 
you’re no company for Irish, and never shall be ; the Lord 
made ’em to be sure, that is all you can say for ’em — you can 
scarce call them human creturs.” 

u They are very kind, Aunt Sara.” 

u So are dogs kind, Fanny. I have moved, and moved, 
and moved to get into a house free of them, but they are 
varmint , and there is no getting away from them. It’s the 
Lord’s will that they should overrun us like frogs and locusts, 
and must be ; but I’ll have no right-hand of fellowship with 
them. There I have set down my foot. Now, child, tell me 
what was all that hurry skurry about.” 

Mrs. Hyat gave Fanny small encouragement to commu 
nicate a scene in which the banned Irish were the principal 
actors. But after a little struggle, her sense of justice to 
them overcame her dread of the old woman’s prejudices, and 
she told the true story. 

“ The overseer at the new buildings gave me leave to 
bring my basket again for kindlings. Pat and Ellen 
O'Roorke were there before me, and they picked out all the 
best bits and put them into my basket, and it was pretty 
heavy, and Pat would bring it home for me ; he was so kind, 
how could I huff him, *Aunt Sara ? but I was afraid you 
would see him, that was the truth, and I wanted to take the 
basket before we got to the house ; so I ran across the street 
after him, and there was a young gentleman driving a beau- « 
tiful carriage, with a servant beside him, and another behind, 
and one of the horses just brushed against me and knocked 
me over. Pat and Ellen were frightened, and mad too, and 
Pat swore, and Ellen. screamed, and the gentleman stopped, and 
the man behind jumped off and came to us, and Pat kicked 
him, and he struck Pat, and the gentleman got out and stopped 


340 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


the fight, and said he was very sorry, and offered Pat money, 
and Pat would not touch it. The Irish have some high feel- 
ings, aunt, for all; and I am sure they are kind as kind 
can be.” 

« Well, well, go on ; did the gentleman say any thing to 
you ?” 

« Yes, aunt ; he saw there was a little blood on my cheek, 
and he took off my bonnet and turned off my hair ; it was 
hut a little bruised — and — and — ” 

“ And , and , and what, child ?” 

« Nothing, aunt, only he wiped off the place with his 
pocket handkerchief, and — kissed it.” , 

“ It’s the last time you shall stir outside the door, Fanny, 
without me.” 

u Aunt Sara ! I am sure he meant no harm, he was a 
beautiful gentleman.” 

“ Beautiful, indeed ! Did he say any thing more to you ?” 

u He said something about my hair being — looking — 
pretty, and he cut off a lock with my scissors that you hung 
at my side yesterday, and he — he put it in his bosom.” As 
Fanny finished, there was a tap at the door, and on opening 
it, she recognized the liveried foptman of her admirer. In 
one hand fie held a highly ornamented bird-cage containing a 
canary, and in the other a paper parcel. 

“ The gentleman as had the misfortune to knock you 
down yesterday, sends you these,” he said, smiling at Fanny ; 
and setting them down on the table, he withdrew. 

Fanny was enchanted. “ The very thing I always want- 
ed,” she exclaimed. The little singing bird began at once 
to cheer her solitude, to break with its sweet notes the heavy 
monotony of her day, to chime in harmony with the happy 
voice of her childhood. While Fanny, forgetting her supper 


FANNY M°DERMOT. 


341 


and the paper parcel, was trying to quiet the frightened flut 
tering of the timid little stranger, Mrs. Hyat, lost in a re- 
verie of perplexity and anxiety, was revolving Fanny’s adven- 
ture and its consequences ; a world of dangers that must be- 
set the poor girl, when, as in the course of nature it soon 
must be, her protection was withdrawn, were all at once re- 
vealed to her. 

Fanny was just thirteen, and the extreme beamy that had 
marked her childhood, instead of passing away with it, was 
every day developing and ripening. Her features were sym- 
metrical, and of that order which is called aristocratic, and 
so they were, of nature’s aristocracy ; if that be so which is 
reserved for her rarest productions. Her complexion was fair 
and soft as the rose-leaf, and the colour, ever varying on her 
cheek, ever mounting and subsiding, with the flow and ebb of 
feeling ; her hair was singularly beautiful, rich and curling, 
and though quite dark, reflecting, when the light fell on it, a 
ruddy glow. 

“ If she looked like other children,” thought Sara Hyat, 
as her eye rested on Fanny, “ she might have been thrown 
down and had both her legs broken, and that young spark 
would never have troubled himself about her. If it had but 
pleased God to give her her grandfather’s bottled nose, or 
her father’s little gray twinkling eyes ; or if she had favour- 
ed any of the Floods, or looked like any of the Rankins- — 
except her poor mother. But what a picture of a face to 
throw a poor girl with, alone, among the wolves and foxes of 
this wicked city. Oh, that men were men, and not beasts of 
prey ! 

“ Fanny — Fanny — child” — the old woman’s voice trembled, 
but there was an earnestness in it that impressed each word 
as she uttered it, “ mark my words, and one of these days, 


342 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


when I am dead, and gone, you will remember them ; God 
gives beauty, Fanny, for a trial to some, and a tempta- 
tion to others. That’s all the use I could ever see in it ; to 
be sure, its a pretty thing to look upon, but its just like a 
rose ; by the time it is blowed out it begins to fade. Now 
do leave that bird-cage one minute and listen to me. This 
is what I want you to remember,” proceeded the old woman, 
with more earnestness and stronger emphasis, “when men 
follow you, and flatter you, turn a deaf ear, Fanny ; pay no 
kind of attention to them, and if they persevere, fly away 
from them as you would from rats.” 

“ Aunt Sara ! I don’t know what you mean ?” 

“ The time will come when I can make my meaning 
plainer ; for the present it is enough for you to know, that you 
must not listen to fine dressde men ; that you must not 
take presents from them ; that you must go straight to 
school and come straight home from it, and say nothing to 
nobody. If ever I get the money that good-for-nothing Mar- 
tin owes me for work done four years ago, I’ll buy you a 
bird, Fanny ; but if you can get a chance, you must send this 
back where it came from.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Sara ! must I ?” 

“ Yes. What is in that paper? Untie it.” 

Fanny untied it. It enveloped a quantity of bird seed, 
and a dainty basket filled with French bonbons. Fanny in- 
voluntarily smiled, and then looked towards her aunt, as if to 
ask her if she might smile. The cloud on the old lady’s brow 
lowered more and more heavily, and Fanny said timidly — 

“ Must I send these back too, aunt, or may I give them 
to Pat and Ellen? I won’t eat any myself.” 

“You are a good child, Fanny, and docile. Yes, you 
may go down and hand them in, and don’t stay talking with 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


343 


them ; and mind again, if ever an opportunity comes, the 
bird goes back.” 

Fanny could not, for her life, see the harm of keeping the 
bird ; it seemed to her that the gentleman was very kind, but 
the possibility of disobedience to her aunt, or of contending 
with her, did not occur to her. She knew, and that was 
enough to know, that her aunt indulged her whenever she 
thought indulgence right, and that she strained every nerve 
for her. Her wishes were not as easily subdued as her will, 
and each day as she grew more in love with her canary, they 
became stronger and stronger, that the opportunity might 
never come to send them away. 

But come it did. The following Thursday was Christmas 
day, a holiday of course to Fanny, but none to Mrs. Hyat, 
who, having been strictly bred a Presbyterian, held in secta- 
rian disdain even this dearest and most legitimate of holi- 
days. 

She was doing the daily task by which she earned her 
bread, making coarse garments for a neighbouring slop-shop. 
Fanny had done up the house-work, and put the room into 
that holiday order which is to the poor what fine furniture 
and fancy decorations are to the rich. She had fed her 
canary bird, and talked to it, and read through the last tract 
left at the door, and she was sitting gazing out of the win- 
dow, thinking how happy the people must be who rode by in 
their carriages, and wondering, as she saw dolls, baby-houses 
and hobby-horses, carried by, where all the children could 
live who got these fine presents. “ There is nobody to send 
me one,” she thought. As if in answer to her thought, there 
was a tap at the door, and the well-known liveried footman 
appeared with a huge paper parcel. 

Fanny’s rose-coloured cheek deepened to crimson. Mrs. 


344 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


Hyat surveyed the lad from head to foot, and nodding to 
Fanny, asked, a Is it he ?” 

“ Yes, aunt.” 

u It’s something for you, miss,” said the footman, advanc- 
ing, and about to deposit a parcel on the table before Mrs. 
Hyat ; ct it’s Christmas day, old lady,” he added pertly ; “ a 
nice day for young people as has red cheeks and bright 
eyes.” 

“ Hum ! you need not take the trouble to set that thing 
down here.” 

u We’ll ma’am, here will do just as well,” he said, placing 
it on the bureau. 

“ Nor there, either, young man ;” but he, without heeding 
her, had already untied the parcel, and displayed to Fanny’s 
enraptured eyes a rosewood work-box, with brilliant lining of 
crimson velvet, and fittings of steel and silver utensils. It 
was but a single glance that Fanny gave them, for she re- 
membered the goods were contraband, and she averted her 
eyes and cast them down. 

11 Tie the thing up, and take it where it came from,” said 
Mrs. Hyat. u What is your master’s name ?” 

The gentleman as employs me is Mr. Nugent Stafford, 
Esquire.” 

11 Where does he live ?” 

“ At the Astor House.” 

“ Grive him the bird, Fanny.” 

Poor little Fanny obeyed, but with a trembling hand and 
tearful eye. The little bird had been a bright spirit in her 
dead daily life. “ Take them all back,” continued Mrs. 
Hyat, u and tell Mr. What’s-his-name ? that such fine things 
are for fine people : that we are poor and honest, and plain- 
spoken, and if he is a real friend to us, he’ll leave us to eat 


FANJNY M c DERMOT. 


345 


the bread of our own earning, without disturbing our minds 
with things that’s no way suited to us.” 

The footman and Fanny stood a little behind Mrs. Hyat, 
and he taking advantage of her deafness, shrugged his shoul- 
ders, saying, “ Crusty, crusty and adding, with a diabolical 
prescience fitting the school in which his master bred him, 
if ever you hear a whistle under your window, three times 
repeated, come down.” 

“ What are you waiting for? you’ve got your message, 
man.” 

“ I was waiting for your second thoughts, old lady.” 

“ I’ve given you my first thoughts, and I’m not one that 
thinks my thoughts twice over, so you may go to Mr. What- 
do-you-call-him ? as quick as you please.” The man departed, 
bowing and kissing his hand to Fanny, as he shut the door. 
“ What said the fellow to you ?” asked her aunt, who had 
heard, as deaf people generally hear, what is meant not to 
reach their ears. 

“ Oh, aunt,” replied Fanny, “ he said something about 
your being crusty.” 

Most unfortunately, and for the first time in her life, she 
dealt unfairly by her aunt. Sincerity is the compass of life ; 
there is no safe sailing without it. The poor child was per- 
plexed. Stafford’s gifts had charmed her. She did not see 
clearly why they were rejected. She was already filled with 
vain longings for some variation of her dull existence ; and 
she was but thirteen years old ! Seldom have thirteen years 
of human life passed with a more stainless record. To do 
her duty, to be quiet, industrious, and true, from being 
Fanny’s instinct, had become her habit. The fountain of her 
affections had never yet been unsealed. Was that well-spring 
15 * 


346 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


of everlasting life to be poisoned ? She had committed hei 
first deceit, poor child ! 

We have gone too much into detail, we must limit our- 
selves to the most striking particulars of our story. 

A year passed. Christmas came again, and the day wore 
drearily away. “Mr. Stafford has forgotten me,” sighed 
Fanny in her inmost heart, as she remembered her last 
Christmas gift. 

“ That flushy fellow, with his yellow cape and cuffs, won’t 
trouble us again, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Hyat. The day 
deepened into twilight ; — Fanny heard a whistle — she started 
— it was repeated, and again repeated. She drew near to 
her aunt as if for defence, and sat down by her, her heart 
throbbing. After a few minutes, there were again three 
whistles, still she sat resolutely still. 

Mrs. Hyat laid down her slop-sewing, wiped her specta- 
cles, and heaving a deep sigh, said, “ I grow blinder and 
blinder, but I won’t murmur as long as it pleases God that I 
may earn honest bread for you and me, Fanny.” Fanny 
looked up, and her aunt saw there were tears in her eyes. 
“ Poor child,” she continued, “ it is not a merry Christmas 
you are having.” The whistle was again repeated. “ Go to 
the baker’s, Fanny, and buy us a mince-pie — it won’t break 
us ; I can pay for it, if I work till twelve to-night, and it 
will seem more like Christmas to you.” 

Again Fanny heard the whistle ; the opportunity was too 
tempting to be resisted, and Fanny threw a shawl over her 
head and ran down stairs. A man wrapped in a cloak had 
just passed the door ; he turned back at the sound of her 
footsteps, threw his arms around her, and kissed her cheek. 
She sprung up the door-step, but he gently detained her, and 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


347 


she, looking up in his face, saw that it was Stafford himself, 
and not, as she supposed, his servant. 

“ Why do you run away from me ?” he said, in a low, 
sweet voice ; “ how have I frightened you ? Am I not your 
friend ? None can feel a greater interest in you.^ I will 
prove it in any way that I can.” 

Fanny’s instincts directed her aright, and fixing her beau- 
tiful eyes on him, she said, “ Come up, then, and say to my 
aunt what you say to me.” 

She did not understand the smile that lurked on Stafford’s 
lips as he replied , 11 No, your aunt, for some reason, I am 
sure I cannot tell what, has taken a dislike to me ; you know 
she has, for she will not permit you to receive the slightest 
gift from me. Come, you were going out, walk along, and 
let me walk by you.” He slid his arm around her waist ; she 
shrunk from him, and he withdrew it. “ How old are you, 
Fanny McDermot ? You perceive I know your name ; and I 
know much more concerning you. that you would not suspect.” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Stafford, how should you know about me ? I 
am fourteen, and a little more.” 

“ Only fourteen ? Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen will soon 
come, and each year, each month, you are growing more and 
more beautiful. Fanny, I dream of you every night of my 
life ; and when I wake, my first thought of you is, 1 1 cannot 
see her — I cannot speak to her.’ ” 

“ Mr. Stafford ?” 

“ It is true, Fanny, true as that the beautiful moon is 
shining on us. Why should it not be true ? It is unnecessary, 
it is cruel, that you should be shut up in that forlorn old 
house with that old woman,” — the 1 old woman ’ grated on 
Fanny’s ear, but she did not interrupt Stafford, and he con- 
tinued, “ Do you like riding, or sailing ?” 


348 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


“ I never rode but once, and that was to Uncle Ben’s 
funeral, and I was never in a boat in my life.” 

“ Come then on Monday, Fanny, at twelve o’clock, to the 
corner of Grand and Essex streets. I will be there, in a 
hackney coach, and I will take you a ride just as long, or as 
short as you please , and when spring comes, you shall go out 
with me in my boat by moonlight. I often pass an evening 
in rowing about the harbor, and I should take such pleasure 
in pleasing you.” 

“ But, Mr. Stafford, Aunt Sara would never give me 
leave — never in the world.” 

a Do not ask her : how is she to know ?” 

u Why, I must tell her. I tell her every thing, and I 
never leave her but to go to school.” 

“ And how is she to know that you are not at school ?” 

“ Mr. Stafford, do you think I would deceive my Aunt 
Sara? No, never, — never.” 

They had arrived at the bakers shop. Fanny turned to 
enter it, and faltered out a “ good night, sir.” 

“ Stop and listen to me one moment,” he said, detaining 
her. That one moment he prolonged till he had repeated, 
again and again, his professions of admiration and interest, 
and his entreaties that she would meet him. She remained 
true to herself, and to her aunt. She offered to tell her 
aunt of his kindness, and to ask her leave to take the ride. 
This he declined, saying li it would be useless,” and finally, he 
was obliged to leave her, with only a promise from her, that 
she would not always disregard the whistle. 

He kissed her hand, and thrust into it a purse. She 
would have followed him. and returned it, but at that, moment 
two persons crossed the street, and interposed themselves 
between her and Stafford; and fearing observation, she re- 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


349 


luctantly retained it. On examination, she found in it 
several gold pieces, and a small locket, with a very beautiful 
miniature of Stafford on one side, and a lock of his hair on 
the other. She had the resolution, after examining the 
features again and again, to tie it up with the purse of 
untouched money ; certainly not without many a pang, as she 
slowly and hesitatingly did it, and directing the parcel to 
“ Nugent Stafford, Esquire,” she secretly gave it to her 
devoted thrall, Pat OTloorke, a clever and honest boy, to 
convey it to that gentleman, at the Astor House. — Pat re- 
turned with the information, that there was no such gentle- 
man there, and Fanny, without having any suspicion of foul 
play, concluded he was out of town. She hid the parcel 
from her aunt’s eye, thinking it would uselessly disturb her, 
and still resolving to return it at the first opportunity. 

She had thus far obeyed her conscience, and it u sat 
lightly on its throne.” 


Two years glided away. Fanny’s beauty, instead of 
passing with her childhood, had become so brilliant that it 
could not be unobserved. She shunned the street, where the 
vultures, that are abroad for prey, seeing she was young, and 
ascertaining that she was unprotected, had more than once 
beset her. A mine had long been working under her feet. 
The dreary companionship of the petulant old woman became 
every day more wearisome to her ; still, she was gentle and 
patient, and for many a heavy month, endured resolutely a 
life that grew sadder and sadder, as she contrasted it with 
the world of beauty, indulgence and love, that had been 
painted to her excited imagination. For the last six months, 


350 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


her aunt had been paralytic, moving from her bed to the 
chair with difficulty, supported hy Fanny, whose slight figure 
tottered under the superincumbent weight of the massive old 
woman. Her faculties had decayed one after another ; still 
the paramount affection of her being remained ; the last lin- 
gering of daylight on the darkening night. She fancied her- 
self still capable of earning their daily sustenance, and hour 
after hour, she would move the only arm she could move, as 
if she were sewing, and at evening take the same garment, on 
which she had thus cheated herself for months, to Fat.ny, and 
falter out, “ take it to Ray’s, dear, and bring the pay.” Fanny 
favoured the illusion, took the garment, and always brought 
the pa,y. 

The O’Roorke’s were still tenants of a room below, and 
since the old woman’s illness, Fanny had often accepted the 
kind offers of their services. Ellen went on her errands, and 
Pat brought up her wood and water ; and whenever she had 
occasion to go out (and such occasions recently came often, 
and lasted long), Mrs. O’Roorke would bring her baby, to 
tend in the “ ould lady’s room.” Though Fanny, without any 
visible means of subsistence, was supplied with every comfort 
she could desire for her aunt or herself, Mrs. O’Roorke, from 
stupidity or humanity, or a marvellous want of curiosity, 
asked no questions. 

On some points, she certainly was not blind. One day, 
Mrs. Hyat, after an ill turn, had fallen asleep, Mrs. O’Roorke 
was sitting by her, and Fanny appeared deeply engaged in 
reading. Ellen O’Roorke looked at the volume, and ex- 
claimed, “ Why, your book, Fanny, is bottom side up.” Fanny 
burst into tears, and flung it from her. 

“ God help the child !” said Mrs. O’Roorke ; “ take the 
baby down stairs,” she added to Ellen, “ and stay by it till I 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


351 


come. Now Fanny, darlint, spake out— what frets you. The 
mother that bore you, is not more tinder to you than Biddy 
O’Roorke ; and have I not seen your eyes this three months 
always unquiet like, and red too, and your cheek getting paler 
and paler ?” Fanny buried her face in the bed-clothes. 
vi Ah, honey dear, don’t fret so ; it’s not to vex you, I’m 
speaking ; the words have been burning on my tongue this 
six weeks gone, but the old lady jealoused us ; and though I 
am old enough to be your mother, or grandmother for that, 
you looked so sweet and innocent-like I was afeard to spake 
my thought.” 

“ I have no word to speak,” said Fanny, in a changed and 
faltering voice, and the bed trembled with the ague that 
shook her. 

At this moment Mrs. Hyat threw her arm out of bed, 
opened her eyes, and for the first time in many days, looked 
about her intelligently, and spoke distinctly, u Fanny.” 

Fanny sprang to her side, and Mrs. O’Roorke instinct' 
ively moved round to the head of the bed, where she could 
not be seen. 

“ Fanny,” continued the old woman, slowly, but with per- 
fect distinctness, “ I am going — you will follow soon — you 
will, dear. Be patient, be good.” The blood coloured again 
her faded and withered cheek as she spoke, and mounting to 
her brain, gave her a momentary vigour. “ Trust in God, 
Fanny, trust in God, and not in man. I go — but I do not 
leave you alone, Fanny, — not alone, — no — no — not alone.” 
The utterance grew’ fainter and fainter, a slight convulsion 
passed over her whole frame, and her features were still and 
rigid. Fanny gazed in silent fear and horror. Her eye 
turned from her aunt to Mrs. O’Roorke, with that question 


352 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


she could not utter. The kind woman said nothing, hut 
gently closed the staring, vacant eyes. 

“ Oh ! she is dead !” cried Fanny, throwing herself on 
the bed in a paroxysm of grief. 11 My last friend ; oh ! I am 
alone — alone. God has left me — I have left him. I de- 
ceived her. Oh dear — oh dear !” 

In vain Mrs. O’Roorke tried to calm and comfort her, 
she wept till she fell asleep from utter exhaustion. Nature 
did the kind work it does so well to elastic youth, and she 
awoke in the morning calm, strengthened, and refreshed. 
She seemed, as Mrs. O’Roorke said, changed from a helpless 
girl to a woman. She sent for her aunt’s clergyman, and 
by his intervention, and the aid of an undertaker, she made 
provision for burying her beside her husband and children ; 
and attended by the clergyman, she followed her last and 
faithful old relative to the grave ; and returned to her deso- 
late apartment, a dreary world behind her, and fearful clouds 
hovering around her horizon — poor young creature ! 

She paid the charges of the funeral ; those charges that 
always come, a sordid and vexing element, with the bereave- 
ments of the poor ; and late the following evening, Mrs. O’- 
Roorke, hearing, as she fancied, a footstep descending the 
stair, and soon after a carriage rolling away, mounted to 
verify or dismiss her suspicions. There was no answer to her 
knock ; the door was not locked, she opened it ; a lamp was 
burning on the table, and a letter, the wafer yet wet, lying 
by it. 

u Ellen,” she called. Ellen came. u Who is this letter 
for, Ellen ?” 

“ Why ! for you, mother, and Fanny’s writing !” 

“ Read it, Ellen ; she knows I cannot read, and if there’s 
e’er a secret in it, keep it as if it were your own.” 


FANNY M l DERMOT. 


353 


Ellen read — “Mrs. O’Roorke, — You have been a kind 

friend to me, and I thank you ; and give you, in token of my 

\ 

gratitude, all that I have in this room. My clothes please 
give to Ellen, and the purse with the two dollars, in the 
corner of the drawer, to Pat. With many thanks from me, 

“ Ever your grateful friend, 

“ Fanny McDermot.” 

“ The dear darlint; but faith, Ellen, that’s not the whole 
of it ; see if there’s never a little something of a sacret shoved 
in betwixt the other words ?” 

“ Ne’er a syllable, mother.” 

“ Ne’er a what, child? t’was a sacret I asked for.” 

“ You’ve got the whole, mother, every word.” 

“ Sure it’s not of myself I’m thinking ; but the time may 
come, when she’ll wish for as rough a friend as I am. God 
help her and guide her, poor child ! in this rough, stony 
world — darlint child !” 

It was some time before Ellen clearly comprehended that 
Fanny was gone from them, probably for ever ; and it was 
some time longer, before these generous creatures could bear 
to consider themselves in any way gainers by her departure. 
They turned the key of Fanny’s door, and went to their own 
room — Ellen to brood over what seemed to her an insolvable 
mystery, and her mother to 1 guess and fear.’ 


Fifteen months had now passed away since Fanny had 
looked out from her joyless home in Houston street, to an 
existence bright with promised love and pleasure. She had 


seen 


354 


FANNY M°DERMOT. 


“ The distant gates of Eden gleam, 

And did not dream, it was a dream.” 

Our readers must now follow her to an isolated house in the 
upper part of the city. There she had two apartments, fur- 
nished with more finery than elegance, or even neatness. The 
rose-coloured curtains were faded, the gilded furniture tar- 
nished, and from the vases of faded artificial flowers Fanny’s 
sickening thoughts now often turned to the white jessamine 
and rose, types of her lost purity, that blossomed in her 
Aunt Sara’s window. 

Fanny was not the first tenant of these apartments, 
which, with others in the same house, were kept, furnished 
and supplied, by a certain Mrs. Tilden, who herself occupied 
the basement rooms. Fanny, now by courtesy called Mrs. 
Stafford, was but little more than seventeen, just on the 
threshold of life ! That fountain of love which has power to 
make the wilderness blossom, to fill the desert places of life 
with flowers and fruits, had been poisoned, and there was no 
more health in it. The eye, which should have been just 
opening to the loveliest visions of youth, was dull and heavily 
cast down, while tear after tear dropped from it on a sleep- 
ing infant, some few months on its pilgrimage u between the 
cradle and the grave.” The beautiful form of Fanny’s fea- 
tures remained, hut the life of beauty was gone ; her once 
brilliant cheek was pale, and her whole figure shrunken. 
Health, self-respect, cheerfulness, even hope, the angel of life, 
were driven away for ever — and memory, so sparkling and 
sweet to youth, bore but a bitter chalice to poor Fanny’s lips. 
She sat statue-like, till she started at a footstep approaching 
the door. A slovenly servant girl entered, in a pert and 
noisy manner, that expressed the absence of all deference, 


FANNY M c DEItMOT. 


355 


and took from a handkerchief, in which it was wrapped, a 
letter addressed to Nugent Stafford, saying, u I’ve been to 
the Astor House, and the American, and the City Hotel, 
and all them boarding-houses down town, and there’s no such 
person there, and nowhere else, I expect.” 

.“ What do you mean, Caroline ?” 

“ Oh, nothing, only them as hangs out false colours must 
expect others to do the same by them. I suppose there’s no 
more a Mr. Stafford than a Mrs. Stafford.” 

“ Hush, my baby,” said Fanny to the infant, stirred by 
her tremor. 

“I want to have my wages paid to-day,” continued Caro- 
line, u as I am expecting to leave.” 

Fanny took out her purse, and paid the girl’s demand. 
Caroline eyed it narrowly ; there were but a few shillings left 
in it, and she changed the assault she had meditated, from 
the purse to a richer spoil. 

u It’s always rulable,” she said, “ when a girl lives in such 
a house as this, and serves the like of you, that she shall 
have extra pay, for risking character and so forth. I see 
your purse is rather consumptive, and I am willing to take 
up with your silk gown, spotted with pink and trimmed with 
gimp.” 

“ Oh hush, my baby !” cried Fanny to the child, who, open- 
ing her eyes on the distressed countenance of her mother, 
was crying as even such young children will, from the in- 
stinct of sympathy. “ The gown hangs in the closet,” she 
replied steadily, “ take it and go.” 

Caroline took it, and while she was deliberately folding 
it, she said, half consolingly, half impertinently, “ It an’t 
worth while grieving for nothing in this world, for it’s a kind 
of confused place. Why it always comes to this sooner or 


356 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


later. Your fine gentleman likes variety! You’ll be as 
handsome as ever again if you’ll leave off sighing and crying 
and you may get as much of a husband as Stafford, and as 
good.” 

“ Leave me, pray leave me,” cried Fanny ; and when 
Caroline shut the door, she threw herself on the bed with 
her baby, saying, amidst tears and shiverings . u Oh, has it 
come to this ? deserted lost ! Am I such a thing that I 
cannot answer that cruel, bad girl ? Oh God, have mercy ! 
He will not hear me, for I only come to him when I 
have none other to go to. Hush, my baby. I wish we 
were in the grave together. Come, now — hush — do.” She 
wiped away her tears, and catching up the child, rushed, half 
distracted, up and down the room, attempting to smile and 
play to it ; and the poor little thing cried and smiled al- 
ternately. 

The following are some extracts from the hapless letter 
which Caroline had brought back to her : 

“ Oh, Nugefit Stafford, am I never, never to see you again ! 
It is two months since you were here ; two months ! it seems 
two years ; and yet when you were last here, and spoke those 
icy, cruel, insulting words, I thought it would be better never 
to see you again than to see you so. But come once more, 
and tell me if I deserved them from you. 

“ Remember, I was thirteen years old, an innocent, loving 
child — loving, but with little to love — when you first stole 
my heart. Did you then mean this ruin ? God knows — you 
know — I don’t. Did you plot it then ? to steal away my in- 
nocence, when I should be no longer a child ? You say you 
never promised to marry me, and you say that I knew what 
was before me. No, you never said one word of marrying 
me ; but did you not swear to love, and cherish me so long 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


357 


as you lived ? And did you not tell me, over and over again, 
that that was all that marriage was in God’s sight ? Did you 
not say that I did not love you half as well as you loved me, 
and again and again reproach me with it? Were you not 
angry, so angry as to frighten me, because I would not desert 
my dear, good, old, faithful aunt, to go with you ? And how 
have I loved you? I have giten up my innocence for you, 
my good name, and the favour of God. I have loved only 
you, never have had a thought beyond you. I wore only the 
fine things to please you ; and truly now I hate to look on 
them, for they were, in your eyes, the price of what I never 
sold, but gave. 

“ But for my poor baby, I would not send to you again ; 
for her I will do any thing, but sin. Mrs. Tilden has twice 
told me I must leave this house. Six months’ rent is due. I 
have ten dollars in my purse. Tell me where I am to go ? 
What am I to do ? I would not stay here if I could — the 
house has become hateful to me. I cannot bear the looks of 
Mrs. Tilden and Caroline. I cannot endure to have them 
touch my baby, for it seems to me as if their touch to my 
little innocent child were like a foul thing on an opening 
rosebud. The very sound of their voices disgusts and fright- 
ens me. Oh ! it was not human to put me among such 
creatures. If you have deserted me for ever, I will earn food 
if I can to keep my baby alive. If I cannot earn, I will beg ; 
but I will live no longer among these bad people. I had 
rather perish with my baby in the street. Oh ! Mr. Stafford, 
how could you have the heart to put me here ? and will you 
not now give me a decent home — for the baby’s sake — for a 
little while — till I am stronger, and can work for her?” 

There was much more in the letter than we have cited ; 
but it was all of the same tenor, and all showed plainly, that 


358 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


though betrayed and deserted, poor Fanny was not corrupted. 
Bold, and hardened indeed, must have been that human 
creature who could have cast the first stone at her. 

For some months after Stafford took her under his pro- 
tection (the protection the wolf affords the lamb !) he was 
passionately devoted to her. He made her world, and made 
it bright with such excess of light, that she was dazzled, and 
her moral sense overpowered. There was no true colouring 
or proportion to her perception ; she was like one, who, 
having imprudently gazed at the sun, sees every object for 
a time in false and brilliant colouring. But these illusions 
fade by degrees to blackness; and so, as Fanny recovered 
from the bewilderment of passion, the light became shadow — 
ever deepening, immovable shadow. She lost her gayety, and 
no twilight of cheerfulness succeeded to it. The birth of her 
child recalled her to herself — the innocent creature was 
God’s minister to her soul — her pure love for it made impure 
love hateful to her. She became serious, then sad, and very 
wearisome to Stafford. He was accustomed to calling forth 
the blandishments of art. Fanny had no art. Her beauty 
was an accident, independent of herself. The unapprecia 
ble treasure of her immeasurable love she gave him, and 
for this there is no exchange but faithful, pure love ; so her 
drafts were on an empty treasury. Passion consumes, 
sensuality rusts out the divine quality of love. Fanny’s char- 
acter was simple and true — elemental. She had little ver- 
satility, and nothing of the charm of variety which comes 
from cultivation, and from observation of the world. What 
could she know of the world, whose brief time in it had been 
passed between her school and Dame Hyat’s room in Houston 
street ! 

Stafford was extremely well read in certain departments 


FANNY M°DERMOT. 


359 


of romantic literature. He had a standing order with a 
Paris publisher for such books as “ George Sand,” « Paul de 
Kock,” and all their tribe produce. But this was a terra in- 
cognita to Fanny. Her reading was confined to the Bible 
and the tracts left at her aunt’s door. He delighted in those 
muses who have come down from the holy mount of inspira- 
tion and sacrificed to impure gods. Poetry, beyond that of 
her aunt’s hymn-book, was unknown to Fanny ; and when 
Stafford brought her Beppa, and Bon Juan, she understood 
but little of them, and what she understood she loathed. 
Stafford loved music. It was to him the natural language 
and fittest excitement of passion, and poor Fanny had no 
skill in this divine art beyond a song for her baby. He gave 
her lascivious engravings ; she burst into tears at the sight 
of them, and would not be moved by his diabolical laugh and 
derision to look - a second time at them. The natural dis- 
similarity and opposition between them came soon to be felt 
by both. He was ready to cast her — no matter where — as a 
burden from him ; and she had already turned -back, to walk 
through the fires her sin had kindled, to the bosom of infinite 
love and compassion. 

Stafford’s vices were expensive, and like most idle, dissi- 
pated young men of fortune, he soon found his expenditures 
exceeding his income. He had no thought of sacrificing his 
vices to his wants, but only the objects of them. He had 
of late felt his mode of life to be so burdensome, that he re- 
solved on reforming it, or rather, on reducing his pleasures, 
by marrying a young woman whose large fortunes would be a 
relief to him, whose beauty and elegance would adorn his es- 
tablishment, and whose character would fill up certain awk- 
ward blanks in his own. 

A person so gifted, and attainable, as he flattered himself, 


360 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


he had discovered in Augusta Emly. Miss Emly’s mother 
was a leading woman of fashion in the city, and she had re- 
ceived his first demonstrations with unequivocal indica- 
tions of favour. 

He deliberately determined to leave Fanny as he had 
done others, to shift for herself, quieting his conscience— it 
was easily pacified — with the reflection that he left her rather 
better off than he found her ! As if simplicity, contentment, 
and a good name, were marketable articles, to be trafficked 
away for a few jewels, laces and silks, and a few months of 
luxurious life. 


CHAPTER IL 

Fanny McDermot might have lain down and died in the 
extremity of her despair at finding herself finally deserted, or 
in her self-condemnation she might have done violence to her 
life ; but her child was Grod’s argument to reason, patience, 
calmness, and exertion. 

She sat herself to consider what could be- done. In all 
this great city, Mrs. O’Roorke was her only acquaintance, 
and though poor and ignorant, she was too her friend, and 
Fanny was in a strait to know the worth of that word friend. 

11 She can, perhaps, tell me where to find employment,” 
thought Fanny, u and certainly she will be kind to me.” And 
to her she determined to go. She laid aside all her fine 
clothes, which were now unfit for her, and had become dis- 
gusting to her, and putting on a gingham dressing-gown, and 
over it a black and white plaid cloak, which, with a neat 
straw bonnet (her aunt’s last gifts), seemed, as she looked at 
herself in them, in some degree to restore her self-respect, 
“ Dear, honest old friends,” she exclaimed, “ would that I had 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


361 


never laid you aside !” It was with a different feeling that 
she took up and laid down, one after another, the pretty 
frocks she had delicately made and daintily trimmed for her 
baby. “ She looks so pretty in them,” she thought ; u and I 
am sure there is no sin in her looking pretty !” But after a 
little shrinking, she dressed the baby in a cotton night-gown, 
and took off her coral necklace, bracelets, and bells. She then 
wrapped her warmly in shawls, and left the house, and after 
walking two squares, she reached a railroad car. There were 
several persons in the car when she entered, and as usual, 
they turned their eyes on the new comer, but not, as usual, 
turned them away again. Those exquisite features arrested 
the dullest eye, and there was something in the depth of ex- 
pression on that young face, to awaken interest in the dullest 
soul. One man touched his neighbour, who was absorbed in 
his newspaper, and directed his eyes to Fanny. Two young 
women interchanged expressions of wonder and curiosity with 
their eyes fixed on her. A good little boy, feeling an in- 
stinctive sympathy with something, he knew not what, ex- 
pressed it by offering her some pea-nuts, and when she looked 
up to thank him, she became for the first time conscious of 
the general gaze ; and thankful she was, when, at the inter- 
section of Houston-street, the car stopped to let her out. 
“ Have a care,” said a Quaker woman at her side, as she rose, 
« thee art young, child, to be trusted with a baby.” Fanny, 
overcome with emotion and fatigue — for it was long since she 
walked out — was ready to sink, when, after having walked 
nearly a mile down Houston-street, she came to her former 
home. The O’Roorke’s were not there. “ They had moved 
many months since,” her informer said, “ down into Broome- 
street, near the North Biver.” “ Was it far ?” Fanny asked. 
“ Faith ! it was !” “ Might she come in and rest herself ?” 

16 


362 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


“ Indeed isn’t she welcome ; and a shame it is for any lady 
to send such a delicate cratur out with a baby in her arms.” 

When Fanny entered and saw the stairs she had so often, 
in her childhood, trodden, the tears started to her eyes ; and, 
when her baby waked, and would not be quieted without food 
from her breast, she perceived the women exchanging signifi- 
cant nods and looks, and overcome by weakness and a gush 
of emotion, she burst into- hysterical sobbings. “ Poor young 
cratur ! poor young cratur ! God help you !” exclaimed the 
■tfoman, with a true Irish gush of feeling : “ and what is’t 
you’re wanting ? Here’s a drink of milk ; take it, honey 
dear; it will strengthen you better than whiskey. We’ve 
done with that, thank God and Father Matthew.” 

Fanny made a violent effort, calmed herself, drank the milk, 
and asked if a cab could not be got for her. There was one 
passing, and at the next instant she was in it, and driving to 
Broome-street. She found the house, but the O’B-oorkes had 
flitted, and in another and distant quarter of the city, she 
found the second dwelling to which she was directed. Again 
they had moved, and whither, no one could tell ; and feeling 
as if the last plank had gone from under her feet, she return- 
ed to her home. Home ! alas, that sacred word had now no 
meaning to poor Fanny. She had scarcely entered her room 
and thrown herself on the sofa with her baby, when Mrs. Tilden, 
her remarkably red-faced landlady, threw open the door and 
said — 

a Are you back ? I did not expect you alone.” 

“ Not expect me alone ? What do you mean?” 

“ Why it’s customary for some kind of folks, you know, 
when they lose one husband, to take another.” 

Fanny looked up ; a sickening feeling came over her ; 
the words she would have answered died away on her lips. 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


363 


“ I suppose you are sensible,” continued Mrs. Tilden, 
“ that honest folks must be paid just debts, and as there’s no 
finding that Mr. Stafford of yours, I have ’strained upon 
your wearing apparel, that being answerable for rent as well 
as furniture ; and all the furniture belonging to me already, 
except the sofa and the Psyche, and the vases and the dress- 
ing case, — them things will help out, but the whole quarter’s 
rent, and eight days over, is due.” 

Fanny said nothing. 

“ I am never ungenerous to nobody. So I have taken 
out enough baby linen to serve you, and a change for your- 
self — the rest is under my lock and key, and I shall keep it, 
may be, a month or more before I sell it ; and if Mr. Staf- 
ford pays me in that time — and I don’t misdoubt he will, 
sooner or later — but them kind of fine gentlemen are slow 
coaches in paying, you know, but I don’t question his honor ; 
he has always been highly honourable to me ; and I have 
been highly honourable to him ; he is a real gentleman, there’s 
no mistake — as I was saying, as soon as he pays me, you 

shall have your things — or the worth of them again ; 

you shall have it all, bating some little reward for my 
trouble — the Psyche, or dressing-case — or so.” 

“Well,” said Fanny, perceiving Mrs. Tilden had paused 
for an answer. 

“ Well,” that’s all — only if you and I can agree, you can 
stay down stairs, as a boarder till” 

“No — not a moment — only let me remain in the room 
to-night, and to-morrow I will try to find a service place.” 

u A service place ! My service to you l” said Mrs. Tilden, 
with a sort of ogress grin. 

“ Oh, don’t look so at me ! Mrs. Tilden, do you think, 
that, after all, I have any pride ?” 


364 


FANNY M c DEItMOT. 


u Pride, pride ! Why, you foolish child, don’t you know 
that 1 after all ,’ as you call it, there is but one kind of ser- 
vice left for you ? Ladies won’t take the like of us into 
their houses.” 

u The like of us,” thought Fanny, and shuddered. 
u They are dreadful partic’lar about any little false step 
of their own sex. If you but dampen the soles of your feet, 
it is as bad as if you are up to your neck in the mire ; but 
men may plunge in over their head and ears, and they are 
just as welcome to their houses, and as good husbands for 
their daughters, as your Josephs — ” 

“ Is it so ? Can it be ? I do not know what will become 
of me ! Oh, baby, baby ! But may I stay here to-night ?” 

“ Why, yes ; but you must be off pretty early, for there’s 
a lady coming to look at the rooms at ten.” 

Poor Fanny, left alone, sank on her knees, with one arm 
round her sleeping baby, and sent out from her penitent and 
humble heart, a cry for forgiveness and pity, that we 
doubt not was heard by Him whose compassions fail not. 
She then threw herself on the bed and fell asleep. Thank 
Grod, no degree of misery can drive sleep away from a wea- 
ried young creature. 

The next morning she laid her plans, and strengthening 
her good resolutions by prayer, she went forth feeling a new 
strength ; and having paid the fee with two of the only four 
shillings left to her,* to the master of an intelligence office, 
who stared curiously at her, she received references to 
three ladies — ■“ the very first-rate of places, all,” as the man 

* For the honour of human nature, and especially the most generous of 
human natures, .Irish nature, we should have told, that on the preceding 
day, Fanny’s cab-driver seeing the meagreness of her purse, refused to take 
pay from her. 




FANNY M c DERMOT. 


365 


assured her. She first went to a lady who wanted a wet 
nurse as a supplement to her own scanty supplies She met 
a young lady in the hall, whom she heard say to her mother, 
“ Oh, mamma ! such a pretty young creature has come for 
wet nurse to sis — do take her.” Fanny was called in, and 
having given satisfactory answers as to her supplies, she was 
asked for references. She immediately did what she had be- 
fore purposed, and confessing she had no references to give, 
told truly so much of her sad story as explained her pitisent 
position. The lady heard her through, possibly not believing 
a word she said, but the fact of her transgression ; and when 
she had finished, she said to her, “ Did you really expect that 
such a person as you could get a place in a respectable fam- 
ily ?” She rung the bell, and added coolly, “ Thomas, show 
this person out. This is the last time I go to an intelligence 
office.” 

Poor Fanny sighed as she left the door, but pressing her 
baby to her bosom, she said softly, “ We’ll not be discouraged 
with one failure, will we, baby ?” The child smiled on her, 
and she went on with a lighter step. Her next application 
was to a milliner, whom the master of the intelligence office 
had told her “ was a very strict religious lady, who says she 
is very particular about the reputation of her girls.” It is 
close by, thought Fanny. “I have but little hope, but I 
must save my steps, and I will go to her.” Again, bravely 
and simply she -told the truth. . The milliner heard her with 
raised brows. “ I am sorry for you, if you tell the truth, 
young woman,” she said. “ I know this city is a dreadful 
place for unprincipled girls, and I make it a rule never to 
take any such into my establishment. I hop*e you do mean to re- 
form, but I can do nothing for you ; I advise you to apply to 
the Magdalen Society.” 


366 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


Again Fanny went on. She had now to go from William- 
street to the upper part of the city ; and precious as her six- 
pences had become, she felt it was utterly impossible for her to 
walk. She, therefore, on reaching Broadway, got into an 
omnibus, and was soon at the door of Mrs. Emly’s fine 
house in Waverley Place, and was shown into a room where 
that lady was sitting in her peignior, looking over with 
her sister some dresses that were to be trimmed for a party 
the following evening. A very elegant young woman was 
sitting at a table drawing. 

“ A sempstress, ma’am, from the intelligence office,” said 
the servant, announcing Fanny. 

“ A sempstress, with a child !” exclaimed Mrs. Emly. 

The young lady looked up at Fanny as she entered ; she 
was struck by her beauty, with her excessive delicacy, and 
with the gushing of the blood to her pale cheek at Mrs. Em- 
ly’s exclamation. She rose, handed Fanny a chair, and say- 
ing most kindly, “ What a very pretty child, mamma ;” she 
offered to take it. The little creature stretched out its 
hands in obedience to the magnetic influence of beauty, 
youth, and a countenance most expressive of cheerful kind- 
ness. If, as is sometimes said, a voice may be “ full of 
tears,” this lovely young creature’s was “ full of smiles.” 
Fanny looked up most gratefully, as the young lady took her 
infant, saying to her, “You must be very tired — is it not 
very tiresome to carry a baby ?” 

“ The baby does not seem to tire me ; but I am not very 
strong,” replied Fanny, wiping away the tears that were 
gathering at the gentleness addressed to her. 

“ You do not look strong, nor well,” said the young lady, 
and she poured out a glass of wine and water, and insisted 
on Fanny taking that, and some more solid refreshment, from 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


367 


the waiter on which a servant had just served lunch. It was 
well for poor Fanny that she accepted the hospitality, for she 
needed to be fortified for what followed. Fanny had been so 
thoroughly drilled in sewing by her aunt, who, it may be re- 
membered, was a tailoress, that she answered very confi- 
dently, as to her abilities as a sempstress. She should be 
content, she said, with any wages, or no wages, for the pre- 
sent, if Mrs. Emly would put up with the inconvenience of 
her child.” 

“ Oh, the child will not be in my way, said Mrs. Emly 
you’ll be up in the attic, and I shan’t hear it ; so, if you will 
give me a satisfactory reference, I will try you.” 

“ I have never lived out,” answered Fanny. Discouraged 
by the rebuffs she had already received, she shrunk from a 
direct communication of her position. 

“ Well, where do your parents live? If I find you have 
decent parents, that will be enough.” 

“ My parents died — long ago — I lived with my aunt — 
and she is dead — and I am friendless.” 

“ Aha !” said Mrs. Emly,” with an emphatic nod of her 
head to her sister, who screwed up her mouth, and nodded 
back again. The young lady walked up to her mother, and 
said to her in a low voice, and with an imploring look — 

“ Mamma, for Heaven’s sake don’t say any more to her ; 
I am sure she is good.” 

“ Ridiculous, Augusta ; you know nothing about it,” re- 
plied Mrs. Emly aloud. And turning to Fanny, she said, 
“ How comes it that you are friendless and alone in the 
world ? Have you not a husband ?” 

“No,” answered Fanny, some little spirit mounting with 
her mounting colour. “ I never had a husband, I have been 


368 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


betrayed and forsaken — I am no farther guilty, — no more in* 
nocent.” 

“ Quite enough ! quite enough ! I can’t of course take 
any such person into my house.” 

il Then my baby and I must die, for nobody will take us 
in,” said Fanny, bursting into tears, and gathering her cloak 
about her. 

“ Oh, mamma,” said Augusta Emly, “ for pity’s sake let 
her stay. I will answer for her.” 

u Pshaw ! Augusta, how very absurd you are ! No respect- 
able lady would take a person of that kind into her house.” 

“ Then what is their respectability worth, mamma, if it 
cannot give help to a weak fellow-creature ?” 

u Miss Augusta,” said a servant, opening the door, “ Mr. 
Sydney is below.” 

11 Tell Mr. Sydney I am engaged, Daniel.” 

“ Augusta,” said her mother, u you are not going to send 
away Russel Sydney in that nonchalant manner. What do 
you mean ? Give the child to its mother, and go down. 
“ It’s a lucky moment for her,” she said, in a whisper to her 
sister. u She has such a beautiful glow on her cheek.” 

It was a beautiful glow — the glow of indignant humanity. 

“ I cannot go down, mother. Daniel, say I am engaged.” 

In another instant, Daniel returned with a request from 
Mr. Sydney, that Miss Emly would ride with him the follow- 
ing day ; 1 he had purchased a charming lady’s horse, and 
begged she would try it.’ 

“ Oh, what shall I say, mamma? I cannot go.” 

Mrs. Emly, without replying to Augusta, opened the door, 
and brushing by Fanny, who had risen to depart, she called 
from the head of the stairs, “Mr. Sydney, excuse me; I am 
in my dressing-gown and cannot come down. Will you come 


fanny m c dermot. 


369 


to the staircase ? We are so up to our eyes arranging with the 
dressmaker for Mrs. Davies’, that you must excuse Augusta 
this morning. She is a little timid, since her accident about 
riding. Are you sure of your horse ?” 

“ Perfectly. Lord bless me ! would I ask Miss Emly, if I 
were not?” 

At the sound of the responding voice, Fanny sprang for- 
ward, and then staggering back again, leaned against the 
door. 

“ Oh ! very well, then,” said the compliant mamma, “ she 
will be ready for you at twelve. Good morning !” 

“ Good morning !” was answered, and Mrs. Emly turned 
towards her apartment, elated with having settled the matter 
according to her own wishes. Fanny grasped her arm, — 
“ For God’s sake, tell me,” she said, in a voice scarcely audible, 
“ where does Mr. Sydney live ? he it is that has deserted me. 
Where can I find him ?” 

Mrs. Emly’s spirit quailed before Fanny’s earnestness — 
her unmistakable truth ; but after a single moment’s hesita- 
tion, she discreetly said — “ I don’t know ; he lives somewhere 
at lodgings. You have prpbably mistaken the person.” 

“ Mistaken, — oh Heaven !” exclaimed Fanny, and glided 
down stairs as if there were wings to her feet ; hut before she 
could reach the pavement, Sydney had mounted into his very 
handsome new phaeton, and was driving proudly up the street, 
gallantly bowing to some ladies at their balcony windows, and 
poor Fanny crept on she knew not why nor whither. 

« What did that poor girl say to you, mamma ? Did she 
mention Sydney’s name ?” asked Augusta Emly. 

“Sydney’s name? Why should she mention it? I did 
not hear her. She might, perhaps — she muttered something. 
She is a little beside herself, I think.” 

16 * 


370 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


“ Do you, mamma ?” 

There could not be a stranger contrast, than Miss Emly’s 
earnest tone and her mother’s flippant one. 

“ Poor — poor girl — how very beautiful she is ! She re- 
minded me of Ophelia. I think she has her senses now, but 
with that deep dejectedness, I should not wonder if she soon 
lost them. May God be more merciful to her than we have 
been. But, mamma, how could you say to Russel Sydney, 
that I would ride with him ?” 

“ Why, are you going to stay at home and sigh over this 
lost damsel ? You will ride with Sydney, unless you prefer 
to hurt my feelings, and displease me seriously.” 

“ That I should be very sorry to do ; but I cannot ride 
with Mr. Sydney.” 

“ Cannot ! and why?” 

“ How can you ask, mamma ? How can you wish me to 
associate intimately with the sort of man he is ?” 

11 What windmills are you fighting now, Augusta ? For a 
sensible girl, you are the silliest I ever met with. What do 
you mean ?” 

u You surely know what I mean, mamma ! You know 
that Russel Sydney has been one of the most dissipated men 
in the city.” 

“ So have forty other men been who are very good hus- 
bands now, or whose wives are too prudent to make a fuss 
about it if they are not. Really, Augusta, I do not think it 
very creditable to a young lady, to be seeking information of 
this sort about young men.” 

“ 1 have not sought it. I never dreamed,” Augusta looked 
steadfastly in her mother’s face, “ that my mother would in- 
troduce a man to me who, as we both have heard, on good 
authority, has kept a mistress since he was eighteen, and 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


371 


changed her as often as suited his caprice ; but haying heard 
this, I surely will not disregard it.” 

“ You are absurdly scrupulous and very unjust, my dear. 
Sydney has entirely given up all this sort of thing — he as- 
sured me he had.” 

“And you relyingly -took his assurance, mamma, and 
would not listen, for one moment, to that poor penitent girl’s 
assurance.” 

“ Oh that’s quite a different thing.” 

“ I see no difference, excepting that the one is the strong 
party, the other the weak, — the one the betrayer, the other 
the betrayed. The fact of the girl seeking honest employ- 
ment is prima facie evidence in favour of her truth.” 

“ You talk so absurdly, Augusta ! And, to speak plainly, 
I do not think it over delicate,” continued Mrs. Emly, with a 
pharisaical curl of her lip, “ for an unmarried lady of nineteen 
to be discussing subjects of this nature — though it may be 
quite often your Aunt Emily’s fashion to do so.” 

u It is very much my Aunt Emily’s fashion to strip off the 
husk, and look for the kernel — to throw away the world’s 
current counterfeit, and keep the real gold. Probably she 
would think it far more indelicate to receive a notoriously 
licentious man into her society, than to express her opinion of 
his vices : and I know she thinks it not only indelicate, but 
irrational and unchristian, to tolerate certain vices in men, for 
which women are proscribed and hunted down.” 

“ Mercy on us, what an oration for nothing ! Truly, you 
and your Aunt Emily, with your country-evening morals, are 
very competent judges of town society. It seems to my poor 
common-sense perceptions, that you are rather a partial dis- 
tributor of your charities. You are quite willing to receive 
this equivocal young woman, with her confessedly illegitimate 


372 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


child, and you would doubly bar and bolt the door against a 
very charming young man, who has sown his wild oats.” 

u Oh, surely mamma, this is not the true state of the case. 
The one party is a man of fashion, received and current, the 
other a poor young outcast, who seems more sinned against 
than sinning — probably the victim of some such 1 charming ’ 
young man as Sydney. As women, as professed followers of 
Christ, my dear mother, ought we not to help her out of the 
pit into which she has fallen ? May we not guard her from 
future danger and misery V* 

Mrs. Emly stood for a moment silent and rebuked before 
the gentle earnestness of her daughter ; but after a moment, 
she rallied and said with a forced laugh, — •“ You had best join 
the Magdalen Society at once, Augusta ; they will give you 
plenty of this fancy-missionary work to do ; I confess it is not 
quite to my taste.” 

Augusta made no reply ; she was too much pained by her 
mother’s levity, and she took refuge in writing the incidents 
of the morning to that “ Aunt Emily,” in whose pure atmos- 
phere she had been reared. 


Sickening with fatigue and disappointment, Fanny, helped 
on her way by an omnibus, returned to the intelligence office 
where she had left her bundle. The official gentleman there, on 
hearing the story of her failure, said, “ W ell, it’s no fault of mine 
— you can’t expect a good place without a good reference.” 

“ Oh, I expect nothing,” replied Fanny, “ I hope for nothiug, 
but that my baby and I may lay down together and die — very 
soon, if it please G-od !” 

“I am sorry for you, I declare I am,” said the man, 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


373 


who, though his sensibility was pretty much worn away by 
daily attrition, could not look, without pity, upon the pale, 
beautiful young creature, humble and gentle, and trembling in 
every fibre with exhaustion and despair. “ You are tired 
out,” he said, “ and your baby wants taking care of. There’s 
a decent lodging-house in the next street, No. 35, where you 
may get a night’s lodging for a shilling. To-morrow morning 
you’ll feel better, — the world will look brighter after a night’s 
sleep. Come back to me in the morning, and I will give you 
some more chances. I won’t go according to rule with you.” 

Fanny thanked him, kissed her baby, and again, with 
trembling, wavering steps, went forth. She had but just 
turned the corner, when, overcome by faintness, she sat down 
on a door-step. As she did so, a woman coming from the 
pump turned to go down into the area of a basement-room. 
She rested her pail on the step, and cast her eye inquisitively 
on Fanny. ^ 

u God save us !” she crie<J, 11 Fanny McDermot, darlint ! 
I’ve found you at last — just as I expected ! God punish them 
that’s wronged you ! Can’t you spake to me, darlint ? Don’t 
you know Biddy O’Roorke ?” 

“ Oh yes,” replied Fanny, faintly, “ my only friend in this 
world ! Indeed I do know you.” 

“ And indeed, and indeed, you cannot come amiss to me — 
you are welcome as if you were my own, to every thing I have 
in 'the world. Rise up, darlint, give me the babby. God’s 
pity on it, poor bird and taking the infant in one arm, and 
supporting and nearly carrying the mother with the other, 
she conducted Fanny down the steps and laid her on her bed. 
With discreet and delicate kindness, she abstained, for the 
present, from inquiries, and contented herself with nursing the 
baby, and now and then an irrepressible overflow of her heart 


374 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


in expression of pity and love to Fanny, and indignation and 
wrath against “ bad craters, that had neither soul, nor heart, 
nor feelings, nor any such thing in them !” 

In the* course of the day Fanny so far recovered as to tell 
her friend her short, sad story, and to learn that affairs had 
mended with the O’Roorkes ; that the drunken husband was 
dead, Pat and Ellen were out at service, and that the good 
mother, with a little help from them, and by selling apples 
and nuts, and now and then a windfall, got bread for herself 
and three little noisy, thriving children. The scantiness of her 
larder was only betrayed by her repeated assurances to Fanny 
that “she had plenty — plenty, and to spare, oceans — oceans,” 
and when Fanny the next morning manifested her intention 
of going out again to seek a place, she said, “ Na, na, my dar- 
lint, it’s not that ye shall be after. Is not the bit place big 
enough for us all ? It’s but little ye’re wanting to ate. Wait, 
any way, till ye’s stronger, and the babby is old enough to 
wane, and then ye can lave it here to play with Anny and 
Peggy.” 

Fanny looked round upon the “ bit place,” and it must be 
confessed that she sickened at the thought of living in it, 
even with the sunny kindness of its inmates, or of leaving her 
little snowdrop of a baby there. The windows were dim with 
dirt, the floor was unwashen — a heap of kindlings were in one 
corner, potatoes in another, and coals under a bed, none of the 
tidiest. Broken victuals on broken earthen plates stood on 
the table, and all contrasted too strongly with the glossy neat- 
ness of her aunt’s apartment. Surely Fanny was not fastidious. 

k< Oh, no, Mrs. O’Roorke,” she said, “ I can never, never leave 
my baby. I am better ; and you are so kind to me, that I’ll wait 
till to morrow.” And she did wait another day, but no per- 
suasion of Mrs. O’Roorke could induce her to leave the in- 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


375 


fant. She insisted that she did not feel its weight, — and that 
“ looking on it was all that gave her courage to go among 
strangers ,” — and 11 that now she felt easier, and more in 
heart, knowing she had such a kind friend to come to at 
night.” 

Finding Fanny resolved, Mrs. O’Roorke said, — •“ Now 
don’t be after telling them your misfortunes ; just send them 
to me for your charackter. It’s ten to one they’ll not take 
the trouble to come ; and if they do, I’ll satisfy them com- 
plately.” 

“ And how ?” asked Fanny, with a faint smile. 

“ Why, won’t I be after telling them just the truth — how 
the good old lady brought you up like a nun, out of sunshine 
and harm’s way; how you were always working with your 
needle, and quiet-like and dove-like — and how the ould lady 
doted on you, and that you were the best and beautifullest 
that ever crossed a door-sill.” 

“ But oh, dear Mrs. O’Roorke, how will you ever come to 
the dreadful truth ?” 

“And I’ll not be after just that. If they bother with 
questions, can’t I answer them civilly, l?anny McDermot? 
How will it harm a body in all the world just to be tould that 
ye’s married your man, what died with consumption or the 
like of that ?” 

Fanny shook her head. 

« Now what’s the use, Fanny McDermot,” continued Mrs. 
O’Roorke, “ of a tongue, if we can’t serve a friend with it ? 
Lave it all to me, darlint. You know I would not tell a lie 
to wrong one of God’s craters. Would I be after giving you 
a charackter if you did not desarve it ?” 

u I know how kind and good you are to me, Mrs. O’- 
Roorke,” said Fanny ; “ but I pray you say nothing for me but 


376 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


the truth. I have asked God’s forgiveness and blessing on 
me and my baby, and we must try to earn it. Promise me, 
will you V 1 

u Oh, be aisy, darlint, be aisy, and I’ll be after doing what 
you wish.” She wrapped the baby in its blanket, carried it 
up the Steps, andjmt it in the mother’s arms. “ There, God 
guide you, Fanny 'McDermot. The truth !” continued Mrs. 
O’Roorke, as her streaming eyes followed Fanny ; u and what’s 
truth good for but to serve the like of her that’s been wronged 
by a false-hearted villain, bad luck to him !” 

It would take a very nice casuist to analyze the national 
moral sense of good Mrs. O’Roorke. The unscrupulous flexi- 
bility of the Irish tongue is in curious contrast with the truth 
of the Irish heart — a heart overflowing with enthusiasm, and 
generosity, and often instinctively grasping the best truth of 
life. 

“ I am thinking,” said the master of the intelligence office, 
as he was doling out two or three references to Fanny, to 
families residing in different and distant parts of the city, “ I 
am thinking you don’t know much of the world, young 
woman ?” 

“ I do not,” replied Fanny, mournfully. 

“ Well then, I^o, and I’ll give you a hint or two. It’s a 
world, child, that’s looking out pretty sharp for number one ; 
where each shows their fairest side, and looks all round their 
fellow creturs — where them that have the upper hand — you 
understand — them what employs others — thinks they have a 
right to require that they shall be honest and true and faith- 
ful, and so on to the end of the chapter of what they call good 
character ; and not only that they be so, but that they have 
been so all their lives. The man that holds the purse may 
snap his fingers, and be and do what he likes. Now, there 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


377 


can’t be friendship in this trade, so what are the weak party 
to do but to make fight the best way they can ? But I 
see you don’t altogether take my idees,” he continued, per- 
ceiving Fzftmy was but half attentive, and replacing his spec- 
tacles, which he had taken off in beginning his lecture on the 
social system ; “ you’ll see my meaning in the application. 
Now, c I’ve asked no questions, and you’ve ^d no lies,’ as the 
saying is, but I know pretty much what’s come and gone — 
you see I understand all sorts of advertisements — by your 
beauty, by your cast-down eyes, with the tears standing on 
the eaves — by the lips that, though too pretty for any thing 
but smiles, look as if they would never smile again ; by the — ” 
“ Oh, please, sir, give me the papers and let me go.” 
“Wait — I have not come to it yet— to the pith. I feel 
like a father to you, child — I do. Now, my advice is, hold 
up your head ; you’ve as much right, and more, I can tell you, 
than many a mistress of a fine house. Look straight forward, 
speak cheery, and say you’re a widow.” 

Fanny looked up, with a glance of conscious integrity ; and 
he added, with a slight stammer — 

“ Why should you not say so ? You are left, and that is 
the main part of being a widow — left to provide for yourself 
and your young one, and that’s the distressing part of being 
one. Every body pities the widow and ^orphan. And I 
should like to have any body tell me which is most complete 
a widow, a woman whose husband is dead, or you ? — which the 
completest orphan, a child whose father lies under ground, or 
yours ?” 

Fanny stretched out her hand for the references, and took 
them in silence ; but when she reached the door, she turned, 
and said, with a voice so sweet and penetrating that it was oil 
to the wounded vanity of the man, “ I thank you, sir, for 


378 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


wishing to help us ; hut baby,” she added, mentally, straining 
her little burden to her bosom, “ we will be true — we will 
keep our vow to God — won’t we? He is merciful; Jesus 
was merciful, even to that poor woman that was brought 
before him by cruel men ; and if nobody will take us in on 
earth, God may take us to Himself — and I think He will 
soon.” 

She walked on slowly and perseveringly, turning many 
streets, till she reached the first address to which she had been 
referred. There, she was received and dismissed as she had 
been on the previous day, and she went to look for the next ; 
but she soon began to feel sensations she had never felt 
before, a pain and giddiness in the head, and a general tremu- 
lousness. She dragged on a little way, and then sat down. 
Gradually her mind became confused, and she determined 
to turn back at once, and make the best of her way to 
Mrs. O’Roorke, but to her dismay, she could not remember 
the name of the street where she lived nor that of the intelli- 
gence-office. 11 Oh, I am going mad,” she thought, “ and they 
will take my baby from me !” and making an effort to com- 
pose herself, she sat down on a door-step, and, to test her 
mind, she counted the panes in the windows opposite. “ All 
is right yet,” she thought, as she went steadily on and finished 
her task ; “ but why cannot I remember the name of that 
street ? Ho you know,” she asked timidly of a man who was 
passing, and who looked like one of those persons who know 
every thing of the sort, — “ do you know any street beginning 
with Van ?” 

11 Bless me, yes, fifty. There’s Vandam,and Vandewater, 
and ” — 

“ Oh, stop there — it’s one of those. Are they near to- 
gether ?” 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


379 


“ As near as east and west — one is one side of the city, 
and one the other.” And he passed briskly on. 

Poor Fanny sat down, and repeated to herself the names 
till she was more at a loss than ever. The passers-by looked 
curiously at her, and two or three addressing insolent words to 
her, she could endure it no longer, and she went slowly, 
falteringly on. Her head throbbed violently, and she felt that 
her lips were parched, and her pulse beating quick and hard. 
Her baby began to cry for food, and seeing some upright 
boards resting against a house, she crept under them to he 
sheltered from observation while she supplied her child’s 
wants. Ther^were two little girls there before her, eating 
merrily and voraciously from an alms-hasket. 

“ Oh, my baby !” said Fanny aloud, “ I am afraid this is 
the last time you will find any milk in your mother’s breast.” 

The little beggar-girls looked at her pitifully, and offered 
her bread and meat. 

“ Oh, thank you,” she said, “ but I cannot eat. If you 
would only get me a drink of cold water.” 

“ Oh, that we can as easy as not,” said one of them ; and 
fishing up a broken teacup from the bottom of her basket, she 
ran to a pump and filled it, and again and again filled it, as 
Fanny drank it. or poured it on her burning, throbbing head. 

“ It’s beginning to rain,” said one of the girls, “ and I 
guess we had all better go home. You look sick — we’ll carry 
your baby for you, if your home is our way.” 

u My home ! No, thank you ; my home is not your way.” 

The children went off slowly, looking hack and talking in 
a low tone, and feeling as they had never quite felt before. 

It was early in February, and the days of course were 
short. The weather had been soft and bright, but as the 
evening approached, the sky became clouded and a chilling 


380 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


rain began. Fanny crept out of her place of shelter, after 
most anxiously wrapping up her baby, and at first, stimulated 
by the fever, walked rapidly on. Now and then she sat down, 
where an arched doorway offered a shelter, and remained 
half oblivious, till urged on again by her baby’s cries. 

It was eleven o’clock, when she was passing before a bril- 
liantly lighted house. There was music within, and a line of 
carriages without. A gentleman was at this moment alight- 
ing from his carriage. Fanny shrunk back, and leaned against 
the area-railing till he should pass. He sprung quickly up 
the step to avoid the dropping eaves, and when in the doorway, 
turned to say, “ Be punctual, at one o’clock.” r Fanny looked 
up : the light from the bright gas lamps beside the door shone 
in the speaker’s face. “ Oh, mercy, it is he f” she exclaimed, 
and darting forward, mounted the step. It was he ! Sydney ! 
He left the door ajar as he entered, and Fanny followed in ; 
and as she entered, she saw Sydney turn the landing of the 
staircase. Above, was the mingled din of voices and music. 
Fanny instinctively shrunk from proceeding. Through an 
open door she saw the ruddy glow of the fire in the ladies’ 
cloak-room. It was vacant. “ I might warm my poor baby 
there,” she thought, “ and it’s possible, — it is possible I may 
speak with him when he comes down,” — and she obeyed the 
impulse to enter. Her reason was now too weak to aid her, 
or she would not have placed herself in a position so exposed 
to observation and suspicion. When she had entered, she 
saw, to her great relief, a screen that divided a small portion 
of the room from the rest. She crept behind it, and seated 
herself on a cushion that had been placed there for the con- 
venience of the ladies changing their shoes. 

“ How very fast you are sleeping, my baby,” she said, 
il and yet,” she added, shivering herself, “ how very cold you 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


381 


are !” And wrapping around it a velvet mantle that had fallen 
over the screen, she leaned her head against the wall, and 
partly stupefied by the change from the chilling street to the 
warm apartment, and partly from exhaustion, she fell asleep. 
What a contrast was she, in her silent, lonely desolation, with 
fever in her veins, and enveloped in cold, drenched, dripping 
garments, to the gay young creatures above, — thoughtless of 
any evil in life more serious than not having a partner for the 
next waltz ! She, a homeless, friendless wanderer ; they, passing 
from room to room amidst the rustling of satins, and soft 
pressure of velvets, and floating of gossamer draperies, with 
the luxury of delicious music, and an atmosphere sweet with 
the breath of the costliest exotics, and crowding to tables 
where Epicurus might have banqueted. 

And such contrasts, and more frightful, are there nightly 
in our city, separated, perhaps, by a wall, a street, or a square ; 
and knowing this, we sleep quietly in our beds, and spend 
our days in securing more comforts for ourselves, and perhaps 
complaining of our lot ! 


More than an hour had passed away, when Fanny was 
awaked to imperfect consciousness by the murmuring of two 
female voices outside the screen. Two ladies stood there in 
their cloaks, waiting. 

« How in the world,” asked one, “ did you contrive to 
make her waltz with him ?” 

“ By getting her into a dilemma. She could not refuse 
without rudeness to her hostess.” 

“ And so you made her ride with him yesterday ? And 
so you hope to decoy her into an engagement with him ?” 


382 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


“No, no. I merely m^an to decoy her — if you choose 
that word — into an intimacy, and then I will leave them to 
make out the rest between them. He is really irresistible ! 
Stamford Smith’s wife was over head and ears in love with 
him ; and you know poor Ellen Livermore made no secret of 
her attachment to him.” 

“ Why did she not marry him ?” 

“ Lord knows,” replied the lady, shrugg.ng her shoulders 
“ She did not play her cards well ; and I believe, the truth is, 
he has been a sad fellow.” 

“ Do you believe there was any truth in that girl’s story 
yesterday ?” 

“Very likely; pretty girls in her station are apt to go 
astray, you know. But here is Augusta. Come in, Mr. 
Sydney, there is no one here but us. Are you going so 
early ?” 

“ Yes. After I shall have seen you to your carriage, I have 
no desire to stay.” There was a slight movement behind the 
screen, but apparently not noticed by the parties outside. 
“ Oh, Miss Emly, allow me,” he said, dropping on his knee 
before Augusta, who, the dressing-maid not being at her post, 
was attempting to button her overshoe, — “ allow me ?” 

“ No, thank you ; I always do these things for myself.” 

“ But I insist.” 

“ And I protest !” And Augusta Emly sprang behind 
the screen. 

Sydney, with a sort of playful gallantry, followed her. 
Between them both the screen fell, and they all stood silent 
and aghast, as if the earth had opened before them. There 
still sat Fanny, beautiful as the most beautiful of Murillo’s 
peasant-mothers. The fever had left her cheek — it was as 
colorless as marble ; her lips were red, her eyes beaming 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


383 


with a supernatural light, and her dark hair hung in matted 
masses of ringlets to her waist. She cast one bewildered 
glance around her, and then fixing her eyes on -Sydney, she 
sprang to him and laid her hand on his arm, exclaiming, 
“ Stafford ! Stafford !” in a voice that vibrated on the ears of 
all those who heard her, long after it was silent for ever ! 

Mrs. Emly locked the door. Truly the children of this 
world are wise in their generation ! Sydney disengaged his 
arm, and said, in a scarcely audible voice, for his false words 
choked him as he uttered them, Who do you take me for ? 
The woman is mad !” 

“ No — I am not mad yet — but oh, my head, it aches so ! 
it is so giddy ! Feel how it beats, Stafford. Oh, don’t pull 
your hand away from me ! How many times you have kissed 
these temples, and the curls that hung over them, and talked 
about their beauty. What are they now ? What will they 
soon be? You feel it throb, don’t you? Stafford,' I am not 
going to blame you now. I have forgiven you ; I have prayed 
to God to forgive you. Oh how deadly pale you are now, 
Stafford! Now you feel for us ! Now, look at our poor little 
child !” She uncovered the poor little infant, and raised it 
more from stupor than from sleep. The half-famished little 
thing uttered a feeble, sickly moan. “ Oh God ! oh God — 
she is dying! Is not she dying?” She grasped Augusta 
Emly’s arm. “ Can’t something be done for her ? I have 
killed her ! I have killed my baby ! It was you that were 
kind to us yesterday — yes — it was you. I don’t know where 
it was. Oh — my head — my head !” 

“ For God’s sake, mamma, let us take her home with us,” 
cried Augusta, and she rushed to the door to look for her ser- 
vant. As she opened it, voices and footsteps were heard de- 
scending the stairs. She heeded them not, — her mother did* 


384 


FANNY M DERMOT. 


“ Go now — go instantly, Sydney,” she said. 

“ Oh, no — no — do not go,” cried Fanny, attempting to 
grasp him ; but he eluded her, and unnoticed by them, passed 
through the throng of servants at the door, threw himself into 
the first hackney coach he saw, and was driven away. 

Fanny uttered one piercing shriek, looked wildly around 
her, and passing through the cluster of ladies pressing into 
the cloak-room, she passed, unobserved by her, behind Miss 
Emly, who stood, regardless of the pouring rain, on the door- 
step ordering her coachman to drive nearer the door. When 
she returned to the cloak-room, it was filled with ladies ; and 
in the confusion of the shawling, there was much talk among 
them of the strange apparition that had glided out of the 
room as they entered. 

Mrs. Emly threw a cloak around her daughter. “ Say 
nothing, Augusta !” she whispered, imperatively, u they are 
both gone.” 

“ Gone ! together V* 

Mrs. Emly did not, or affected not to hear her. The next 
morning Miss Emly was twice summoned to breakfast before 
she appeared. She had passed a sleepless and wretched 
night, thinking of that helpless young sufferer, ruined, and 
in her extreme misery, driven forth to the stormy ele- 
ments. 

There is not a sadder moment in life than that in which a 
young, hopeful, generous creature discovers unsoundness, world- 
liness, and heartlessness in those to whom nature has most 
closely bound her, — than that, when, in the freedom of her own 
purity and love of goodness, and faith in truth, she. discovers 
the compromising selfishness, the sordid calculations, the con- 
ventional falsehood of the world. Happy for her, if, in mis- 
anthropic disgust, she does not turn away from it ; happy, if 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


385 


use does not bring her to stoop from her high position ; most 
happy, if like Him who came to the sick, she fulfil her mission, 
and remain in the world, not of it ! 

Augusta went through the form of breakfast, and taking 
up the morning paper and passing her eye listlessly over it, 
her attention was fixed by the following paragraph : 

“ Committals at the Tombs . — Fanny McDermot, a young 
woman so calling herself, was taken up by a watchman during 
the violence of the storm last night with a dead infant in her 
ayms. A rich velvet mantilla, lined with fur, was wrapped 
round the child. Nothing but moans could be extracted from 
the woman. She was committed for stealing the mantilla. A 
jury of inquest is called to sit upon the child, which they have 
not yet been able to force from the mother’s arms.” 

11 Good Heavens, Augusta, what is the matter ? Are you 
faint?” asked the mother. 

Augusta shook her head, and rang the bell, while she gave 
Mrs. Emly the paragraph to read. “ Daniel,” she said to the 
servant who answered the bell, “ Go to Dr. Edmunds, and ask 
him to come to me immediately. Stop, Daniel — ask Gray as 
you go along to send me a carriage directly.” 

11 What now, Miss Emly ? Are you going to the Tombs ? 
“ Yes.” 

u Not with my permission.” 

“ Without it then, ma’am, unless you bolt the doors upon 
me. The doctor will go with me. There is no impropriety, 
and no Quixotism in my going, and I shall never be happy 
again if I do not go. Oh, my dear mother,” continued she, 
bursting into tears, “I have suffered agonies this night think- 
ing of that poor young ^man ; but they are nothing — nothing 
to the misery of hearing you last night defend that bad man. 
and bring me reason upon reason why ‘ it was to be expected,’ 
17 


386 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


and ‘ what often happened/ and 4 what no one thought of con- 
demning a man for.’ That he, loaded with God’s good gifts, 
should make a prey and victim of a trusting, loving, defenceless 
woman ; and she should be cast out of the pale of humanity — 
turned from our doors — driven forth to perish in the storm. 
Oh, it is monstrous ! — monstrous !” 

Augusta was too strong for her mother. She made no 
further opposition, but merely murmured, in a voice that did 
not reach her daughter’s ear, “ There does seem to be incon- 
sistency, but it appears different when one knows the world !” 


The door of Fanny McDermot’s cell was opened by the 
turnkey, and Miss Emly and the physician were admitted. 
It was a room twice the size of those allotted to single occu- 
pants, and there were already two women of the most harden- 
ed character in it, besides a young girl, not sixteen, committed 
for infanticide. She, her eyes filled with tears, was bathing 
Fanny’s head with cold water, while the women, looking like 
two furies, were accusing one another of having stolen from 
Fanny, the one a handkerchief, the other a ring. 

Fanny’s dead infant was on her arm, while she, half raised 
on her elbow, bent ove* it. She had wrapped her cloak and 
the only blanket on the bed around it. “ She is so cold,” she 
said ; “ I have tried all night to warm her. She grows colder 
and colder.” 

u Cannot this young woman be moved to a more decent 
apartment?” asked Miss Emly of the turnkey. 

Fanny looked up at the sound 4pf her voice. “ Oh, you 
have come — I thought you would,” she said. “ You will 
warm my baby, won’t you.” 


FANNY MDERMOT. 


387 


“ Yes, indeed I will. Let me take her.” 

“ Take her away ? No — I can’t — I shall never see her 
again ! They tried to pull her away from me, but they could 
not — we grew together ! Bring me a little warm milk for 
her. She has not sucked since yesterday morning, and then 
my milk was so hot, I think it scalded her — I am sure it did 
not agree with her.” 

u Oh, pray,” said Augusta, to the turnkey, who had replied 
to her inquiry, u that the next room was just vacated, and 
could be made quite comfortable, “ pray procure a bed and 
blankets, and whatever will be of any use to her. I will pay 
you for all your expense and trouble.” 

u Nothing can be of use,” said the physician,” whose fingers 
were on Fanny’s pulse ; u her heart is fluttering with its last 
beats.” 

“ Thank God !” murmured Augusta. 

u Put your hand on her head. Did you ever feel such 
heat ?” 

u Oh dear, dear ! it was that dreadful heat she spoke of 
in all her mental misery last night.” 

A quick step was heard along the passage ; a sobbing 
voice addressed the turnkey, and in rushed Mrs. O’Boorke. 
She did not, as her people commonly do at the sight of a 
dying creature, set up a howl, but she sunk on her knees, and 
pressed her hand to her lips as if to hold in the words that 
were leaping from her heart. 

Fanny looked at her for a moment in silence, then, with a 
faint smile on her quivering lips, she stretched her hand to 
her. u You have found me. I could not find you. I walked 
— and walked.” She closed her eyes and sunk back on her 
pillow ; her face became calmer, and when she again opened her 
eyes it was more quiet. “ Mrs. O’Roorke,” she said, quite 


388 


FANNY M c DERMOT. 


distinctly, directing her eyes to Augusta , i: this lady believed 
me — tell her about me.” 

“ Oh, I will— I will— I will ” 

u Hush — not now. Come here, — my baby is dead. I — 
God is good. I forgive — God is love. My baby — yes — God 
— is — good.” 

In that unfailing goodness the mother and the child re- 
pose for ever. 


✓ 


6*2 --A* 


THE END. 


















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Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
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BBKKEEPER 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. INC. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp.. PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 


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